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Mrs. George Papashvily 





A Novel 


Author of 

"The Unloved Wife," "Lilith," "Em," "Em s Husband," 

" For Whose Sake," "Why Did He Wed Her?" 
"The Bride s Ordeal," " Her Love or Her Life," Etc. 


Popular Books 


In Handsome Cloth Binding 

Price - 60 Cents per Volume 

















For Sale by all Booksellers 
or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price 

52 Duane Street New York 

Copyright, 1877 and 189 


Renewal granted to Mrs. Charlotte Southworth Lawrence, 1905 


Printed by special arrangement with 





Her eyes flashed fire ! Convulsive rage possessed 
Her trembling limbs and heaved her laboring 

. breast ; 

Blind to the future, by this rage misled, 
She pulled down ruin on her reckless head. 


"DAVID LINDSAY, will you marry me?" 

The speaker was a girl scarcely past childhood,, 
young, beautiful, good, wealthy, and yet desper 
ate, as not only her words, but her every look, tone, 
and gesture proved. 

Her voice was low, her tone steadied by a power 
ful self-control. She stood there with a pale hor 
ror, yet fixed resolution, on her face; as one might 
stand on the deck of a burning ship, wrought up to 
choose death between fire and water, ready to es 
cape the flames by plunging into the sea. 

He to whom she spoke was a poor fisherman on 
the estate, young, strong, healthy and handsome, 
with the good looks that youth and health give, 
but bronzed by exposure, roughened by toil and 
rudely clothed. 




The scene of this strange interview was a small, 
sandy island on the coast of Maryland. The time, 
an over-clouded and blustering morning near the 
end of January. 

He had been hard at work mending his boat, 
which lay bottom upwards on the beach, when she 
came suddenly upon him. 

Then he stood up, took off his old tarpaulin hat, 
and respectfully waited her orders. 

What a contrast they formed, as they stood there 
facing each other she, the delicate, patrician 
beauty, wrapped in richest furs and finest velvets, 
yet with that look of pale horror and fixed resolu 
tion on her beautiful face he, the hardy son of the 
soil, bronzed and rugged, clothed in a rough pea- 
jacket and loose corduroy trousers, with their legs 
tucked into high, coarse, bull-hide boots; robust, 
erect, cordial, yet with a look of unbounded aston 
ishment in his fine dark eyes. 

They might have been the last young man and 
maiden left in the world, for all sign of human life 
or habitation near them, as they stood on that little 
sterile isle around them the dark -gray sea rough 
ened by a high wind behind them the mainland in 
its wintry aspect of skeleton forests, rising from 
snow-clad hills. 

"David Lindsay, will you marry me?" repeated 
the girl, seeing that he had not answered her ques 
tion, but stood before her dumfounded with amaze 

"Miss de la Vera!" was all that he could utter, 
even now. 

"I know that you love me," she continued, speak 
ing now with more vehemence, and looking over 
her shoulder, from moment to moment, as if, even 


in that remote, sea-girt isle, she dreaded espionage, 
eavesdroppers, discovery, pursuit, arrest. "I know 
that you love me, David! It is that which gives 
me courage to come to you for refuge in my dread 
ful desperation. I know that you love me, for I 
heard you say so once when you saved nay life 
that time at the imminent risk of your own." 

"And, oh, is it possible that you can love me?" 
breathed the young man, in deep tones vibrating 
with his heart s profound emotions; for with his 
whole heart he had loved her, deeply, ardently, hope 
lessly with his whole soul he had worshiped her, 
afar off, as some exalted and forever unattainable 
good. "Is it possible that you can love me?" 

"No!" she answered, hurriedly. "I do not love 
you! That is, I mean I love everybody, and you 
more than others; but oh, David, feeling sure that 
you love me, for you told me so once " 

"I was mad in my presumptuous folly " began 

the youth. 

"Feeling sure that you love me, because you told 
me so once, although I do not love you yet more 
than others, I will be your wife and try to love you 
more, if only you will take me far away from this 
place at once and forever, David! If you ever 
cared for me, stop to ask no questions ; but do as I 
ask you, and you shall have my hand and all that I 
possess!" she breathed hardly, looking over her 
shoulder at intervals, with a nervous, expectant, 
terrified manner. 

"Miss de la Vera, it is you who are mad now !" he 
replied, in a tone of ineffable sadness and longing, 
as he gazed on her with something like consterna 


And well lie might ! The situation was astound 

Here was this young girl, Gloria de la Vera, the 
daintiest beauty, the wealthiest heiress in the 
country, proposing to marry HIM, the poor young 
fisherman attached to the estate! It was wonder 
ful, unprecedented, incrediblel 

Why, half the young men in the community were 
mad to get her. A smile of hers would have brought 
the best of them to her feet. 

And yet she came to give her hand and her for 
tune to this poor, unlearned young fisherman ! 

"Nothing, nothing but temporary insanity could 
have betrayed her into such a reckless proposal, " 
said the young fisherman to himself. 

Yet the girl who stood there before him, calm, 
pale, and steadfast as a marble statue, was not in 
sane no, nor immodest, nor unmaidenly, however 
appearances might tell against her. 

Neither had she done any wrong, or even suffered 
any wrong; for she had scarcely a fault in her na 
ture to lead her into any evil, and never an enemy 
in the world to do her any injury. 

Nor had she quarreled with a betrothed lover and 
sought to revenge herself upon him by rushing into 
this low marriage; but she had never been in love 
and never been engaged. 

Neither did she hurry towards matrimony as a 
refuge from domestic despotism, for she was the 
petted darling of a widowed and childless uncle, 
who had been a father to her orphanage; and she 
had had her own right royal will and way all her 
little life. 

If there were any despotic tyrant at old Promon 
tory Hall, that tyrant was the dainty little beauty, 


Gloria de la Vera herself, and if there were any 
"down-trodden" slave, that victim was the re 
nowned military hero, Colonel Marcellus de Cres- 

Why, then, since no reasonable, nor even unrea 
sonable motive could be found for the mad act, 
should Gloria de la Vera wish to hurl herself head 
long down into the deep perdition of a low and love 
less marriage? 

To elucidate the mystery we must narrate the in 
cidents of her short life. 

On the coast of Maryland there is a bleak head of 
land thrown out into the sea, and united to the 
main only by a long and narrow neck of rocks. 

If this weird headland had been a little loftier it 
would have been a promontory or if the neck of 
rocks had been a little lower it would have been 
an island. 

As it happened, it was neither, or it was both; 
for, at low tide, when the neck was bare, the head 
was a promontory, and at high tide, when the waves 
rolled over the rocks, it was an island entirely sur 
rounded by the sea. 

The ground arose gradually from the shore to the 
centre, upon the highest and safest part of which 
stood a large, square, heavy, gray stone building, 
in a yard inclosed by a high stone wall. 

Lower down on the shore was another wall, 
called the sea-wall. 

Beyond this, on the sand, were a few scattered 
fishing huts and boat-sheds. 

There was but little vegetation on the place, and 
the nearer the shore the sparser the growth. On 
the hill near the house, indeed, there were a few 
old oaks, said to have been planted more than two 


centuries before by the first owners of the soil and 
builders of the house. There were also a few gigan 
tic horse-chestnuts and other fine forest trees; but 
all these had been transplanted from the mainland 
ages before. There was nothing of native growth 
on the promontory. 

Behind the house was an old garden, where 
"made soil" was so rich that the place had grown 
into a perfect thicket of shrubs, vines, creepers, 
bushes, and all sorts of hardy old plants, flowers, 
and fruit-trees. 

Behind this was a kitchen garden, where a few 
vegetables were with difficulty raised for the use 
of the family, and bejond were fields of thinly grow 
ing grass and grain, that barely afforded sustenance 
for the cattle and sheep on the premises. 

Altogether this half sterile promontory, with its 
square, massive gray stone mansion, its high stone 
yard- wall, its strong stone sea-wall, its iron gates, 
and its grim aspect, looked more like a fortress 
or a prison than the hereditary home of a private 

The locality had also a bad reputation, and a 
worse tradition, besides as many aliases as any pro 
fessional burglar. 

It was called Pirates Point, Buccaneers Bridge, 
and La Compte s Landing. 

The story, or the history, was that this place had 
been the frequent resort of the notorious freebooter, 
La Compte, whose nom-de-guerre of "Blackbeard" 
had been, in the old colonial days, the terror of the 
Chesapeake and its tributaries. 

Vast treasure, it was said, had once been buried 


here, and might still be waiting its resurrection 
at the hands of some fortunate finder. 

However that might have been, whatever wealth 
of gold, silver, or precious stones might have lain 
hidden for ages in the depths of that sterile ground, 
it is certain that the last proprietor of the promon 
tory was poor enough. 

He was Marcellus de Crespigney, a retired officer 
of the army, an impoverished gentleman. 

At the time our story opens, Colonel Crespigney 
was a young widower, without children and with 
out family, if we except his maiden aunt, Miss 
Agrippina de Crespigney, and his youthful ward, 
Gloria de la Vera. 

His history may be very briefly summed up. He 
was the second son of a wealthy Louisiana planter, 
whose estate being entailed upon the eldest male 
child, left little or nothing to younger brothers 
or sisters. 

Marcellus, when required to select a profession, 
being of a grave and studious disposition, would 
have preferred divinity or medicine, but finally 
yielded to the wish of his father, and entered West 
Point Military Academy to be educated for the 

At the age of twenty-one he graduated with 
honors, and then went to spend a short leave with 
his parents previous to joining his regiment. 

He met them by appointment at Saratoga, which 
was at that time the headquarters and great sum 
mer resort of Southern families, flying from the 
fierce heat and fatal fevers of their native districts 
to the cool breezes and healing waters of the North. 

And here, Marcellus, or, as he was most fre 
quently called, Marcel de Crespigney, met the great 


misfortune of liis life, for here he first saw the lady 
who was destined to be his wife. 

Marcel de Crespigney was one of the handsomest 
men of his time. At the age of twenty-one he was 
as beautiful as Apollo. His form was of medium 
size and fair proportions, his head stately and well 
set, his features Romanesque in their regularity 
and delicacy of outline; his hair and beard were 
dark brown, and closely curled ; his eyes dark hazel, 
with a steady, thoughtful, sympathetic gaze that 
had the effect of mesmerizing any one upon whom 
it fell. 

Such beauty is too often an evil and a cause of 
weakness in man. It frequently inspires and 
nourishes vanity, and saps and blights true man 

Such, however, was not its effect upon Marcel de 

He had his fatal weakness, as you will presently 
discover; but that weakness did not take its root 
in self-love quite the contrary. 

If he had possessed vanity, however, he would 
have found a surfeit of food for it. 

Wherever he appeared, he was noticed as the 
handsomest man in the company, and many were 
the light-headed and soft-hearted girls who fell 
more or less in love with him. 

At Saratoga, in the immediate circle of his 
mother and sisters, he met a party of West Indians 
the Count Anton i a de la Vera, an aged Portu 
guese grandee, his young wife, the Countess 
Eleanor, her sister, Eusebie La Compte, and their 
three-year-old daughter, named after the good 
Queen of Portugal, Maria da Gloria; but for the 
radiant beauty of her fair complexion, golden hair, 


and sapphire eyes, which she inherited from her 
mother, they called her Gloria only. 

Of all the people present, this child took suddenly 
and solely to the young lieutenant. She would 
leave father, mother, auntie or nurse, to leap into 
the arms of her "Own Marcel," as she soon learned 
to call him. It was wonderful; and superficial 
people said it was his gay uniform that attracted 
the child but then the child looked only at his 

But there was another of the West Indian party 
who found great pleasure in the presence of Marcel 
de Crespigney. This was Miss Eusebie La Compte, 
the sister of the Senora Eleanor. 

They, the sisters, were not West Indians, but 
Marylanders, orphan daughters and co-heiresses of 
old George La Compte, of La Compte s Landing and 
Pirates Promontory. 

In the division of the estate after the death of 
their parents, the most valuable portion, La 
Compte s Landing, had been given to the eldest 
daughter, Eleanor, and the least desirable, Promon 
tory Hall, to the youngest, Eusebie. 

It was while the sisters were residing at the 
house of their guardian, an eminent lawyer of 
Washington city, that they made the acquaintance 
of the Count de la Vera, then ambassador from 
Portugal. He was a bachelor, and attracted by the 
radiant blonde beauty of the elder sister, he had 
proposed for her hand. 

Eleanor, whose heart was free, and whose fancy 
was fascinated by the prospect of rank, wealth and 
position, promptly accepted the offer, and in due 
time became Madame de la Yera. 


A brilliant season in Washington followed their 
marriage, then a tour of the fashionable watering- 

Finally, when the ambassador was recalled, he 
went to Lisbon to resign his portfolio, and then 
he came back and settled down on his West Indian 

But not for long. 

Troubles broke out. Possessions were insecure. 

Count de la Vera sold off his property and came 
to Maryland, the native State of his beautiful wife, 
where he invested largely in land. 

By this time the Senora Eleanor s health began 
to fail. Then her doling husband sent for her sister 
to travel with her, and to help to relieve her of the 
care of their infant daughter, Gloria. 

They all went to Saratoga together, and thus it 
happened that we found them in the company of 
Madame de Crespigney and her daughters. 

Eusebie La Compte, the heiress of the bleak prom 
ontory, had not the radiant beauty of her sister, 
whose brilliant complexion, shining golden hair 
and sparkling blue eyes had been inherited by her 
daughter; no, the pale face, sandy locks and gray 
eyes of Eusebie formed but a tame copy of the 
brighter picture. 

Yet Eusebie could not be called "plain," and far 
less "ugly." Her form seemed cast in the same 
mold as that of her beautiful elder sister, only it 
was thinner. Her profile had the same classic facial 
angle, but it was sharper. Her complexion was 
quite as fair, only it was paler. Her hair was of 
the same color, only it was duller. Her eyes were 
of the same hue, but they were dimmer. 


If Eusebie had been healthy and happy, she 
would have been as beautiful and brilliant as her 
sister; or if she had been smitten, as Eleanor had, 
by hectic fever only, which gives color to the cheeks 
and light to the eye. But to be afflicted with 
malaria, which dulls the complexion and dims the 
eyes, is quite another thing. 

Nevertheless, there were times when Eusebie was 
almost beautiful. It was when any strong emotion 
flushed her cheeks and fired her eyes. 

The West Indian party did not go much into 
society. The health of Seuora Eleanor forbade 
their doing so. The only company they saw was 
our party from Louisiana. 

The illness of the mother and the negligence of 
the nurse, threw the little Gloria very much upon 
the care of Eusebie, who was almost always to be 
found in Madame de Crespigney s circle. 

Thus it happened that Eusebie and Marcel were 
brought daily together, and united by their common 
interest in the beautiful child, Gloria. 

So Eusebie, the pale, agueish girl, fell in love 
with the handsome young Marcel fell in love with 
him, not after the manner of the soft-hearted girl, 
who sighed in secret and slipped out of sight, but 
after the manner of the woman who says to herself, 
"Love or death/ and thinks tow r ards her victim, 
"Your love or your life!" 

Marcel de Crespigney being of a tender, affec 
tionate, sympathetic nature, had been more or less 
in love all the days of his youth. In earliest in 
fancy he was ardently in love with his nurse. At 
five years old he was passionately enamored of his 
nursery governess, a bright young Yankee girl. 


And when she married the Methodist minister, 
Marcel wept tears of agony. His Sunday-school 
teacher, an amiable old maid, was his next flame. 
When she died of yellow fever he put crape on his 
little cap and flowers on her grave. 

Then followed, as queens of his soul his sisters 
music mistress, his mother s seamstress, and the 
overseer s sister-in-law. At the age of fifteen he 
actually offered marriage to the doctor s widow, a 
genial, soft-eyed, warm-hearted matron of thirty- 
five, who, in her wisdom and goodness, refrained 
from wounding his affection by contempt, but 
gravely and kindly assured him that, though she 
declined to be engaged then, yet she would wait 
for him, and if he should be in the same mind five 
years from that time, she would listen to him. 

The boy left her, in ecstasies of hope and hap 
piness, after vows of unchanging, eternal fidelity. 

But he did not remain in the same mind, which 
was fortunate, as the doctor s widow also died, and 
of yellow fever. 

At the age of seventeen, when the young man en 
tered West Point, as we have said, he would have 
speedily contracted a pure, platonic love for the 
colonel s \vife, a handsome and intellectual lady of 
middle age, only a high sense of honor warned him 
of the danger of such moral quicksands. 

After this the boy devoted himself to his military 
studies, and the sentiment of spoonyism soon gave 
place to the sentiment of heroism. 

Yes, Marcel de Crespigney had been in love nearly 
all his life; but he was neither vain enough nor 
observant enough to perceive the preference be 
stowed on him by his young lady friends; nor would 
he ever have known the infatuation of Eusebie La 


Compte, had not his mother discovered and revealed 
it to him. 

In the eyes of Madame de Crespigney, the pale 
Eusebie seemed a very eligible match for her por 
tionless son. Report had exaggerated the riches of 
the co-heiresses. The elder sister had married a Por 
tuguese grandee. Altogether the connection seemed 
a good one in a social and financial point of view. 

Of course, Madame de Crespigney did not set the 
matter before her son in that light. She knew Mar 
cel too well. She adroitly directed his attention 
to the delicate girl, and enlisted his sympathies for 
her, so that he soon perceived how the pale cheeks 
would flush, and the dim eyes fire, and the whole 
plain face grow radiant and beautiful in the love- 
light of his presence. His heart was free, and so 
he became interested in her. He thought she was 
the first who had ever loved him, and so he grew to 
believe that he loved her. 

At least he proposed to her and was accepted. 

As the young officer had but a month s leave be 
fore joining his regiment, that was under orders 
to march for Mexico to join General Scott s army 
on the first of September, and as the bride-elect 
decided to accompany her intended husband, "even 
to the battlefield," the engagement was a short one. 
The wedding was hurried. 

On the morning of the twenty-fifth of August the 
young couple were quietly married in the nearest 
church, and immediately after the ceremony they 
set out for Washington, where Lieutenant de Cres 
pigney joined his regiment, which was on the eve 
of departure for the seat of war. 

I do not mean here to tell over again, even the 


least part, the oft-repeated story of the Mexican 
War, but only to allude in the briefest manner to 
Marcel de Crespigney s share in it. He went to 
Mexico, accompanied by his bride, who was with 
him wherever duty called. 

She spent the first three years of her married life 
in camps, on battle-fields, and in hospitals, and so 
did her woman s share of the work. 

He behaved gallantly from first to last, as is best 
shown by his military record. For, having entered 
the service at the beginning of the war with the 
rank of second lieutenant of cavalry, he left it at 
the close with that of colonel and brevet brigadier- 

At the earliest solicitation of his wife, he then 
resigned his commission and retired with her to 
private life, on her estate at Pirates Promontory, 
the principal wealth of which consisted in its great 

No children had come to them to crown their 
union, and this want had been a source of disap 
pointment to the husband and humiliation to the 
wife, that even threatened in the course of time to 
estrange them from each other. 

They must have continued to live a very lonely 
life on their remote estate "the world forgetting, 
by the world forgot" but for circumstances that 
occurred in the first year of their residence at the 

These were the deaths of the aged Count de la 
Vera and his fragile young wife, who passed away 
within a few days of each other, leaving their 
orphan child, Maria de Gloria, to the care of her 
maternal aunt and uncle, who gladly received her. 




A willful elf, an uncle s child, 
And half a pet and half a pest, 

By turns angelic, wicked, wild, 
Made chaos of the household nest. 


GLORIA was seven years old when she came to 
live with her uncle and aunt. She was too young 
and too bright to realize the loss she had sustained 
in the death of her parents, or to grieve long after 
them. And besides was it a new affection, or was 
it a reminiscence of the old one? She soon became 
devotedly attached to her uncle. 

It was a grim home to which the radiant child 
had been brought; but nothing could dim the 
brightness of her spirit or depress the gladness of 
her heart not old Promontory Hall with its gray, 
massive, prison-like structure, its high stone walls, 
and its dreary sea view, drearier than usual in the 
dull December days in which Gloria looked upon it 
not even the deadening coldness that was creep 
ing like a blighting frost between the husband and 
the wife a coldness that the warm-hearted child 
felt rather than understood. 

This condition, it must be confessed, was the 
fault of Eusebie rather than Marcel. It grew out 
of the jealousy and suspicion that had their root 
in her inordinate and exacting affection for him. 

Her self -tormenting spirit whispered that he had 
never really loved her, but had married her out of 


compassion, or : worse still, that he had never even 
cared for her in any manner, but had taken her for 
her little fortune alone. She saw that, as the years 
passed away, and hope of a family died out, he was 
disappointed in the continued absence of children, 
and she persuaded herself that he secretly hated 
and despised her for not giving them to him. 

All this wore out her health and spirits. 

And so she grew more and more irritable and 
petulant, often repelling his best-meant efforts to 
comfort and cheer her telling him she wanted 
none of his capricious sympathy, his hypocritical 
tenderness; she could live without either. 

All this he bore with the greater patience because 
he knew it could not last long because he saw the 
fiery soul was burning out the fragile body, and 
because he felt that there was a grain of truth in 
the stack of falsehood. It was this that he had 
married her for pity, or for such love as pity 

The coming of Gloria into this house of discord 
had been as the advent of an angel in purgatory. 
Her very presence had a mediating, reconciling 

Yet it must not be supposed that Gloria was a 
real angel, or that her coming brought perfect peace 
to the household. Far from this. Gloria had a 
fiery little spirit of her own that sometimes flamed 
out at very inconvenient times and seasons, and 
the most she did towards restoring harmony was 
to restrain by her bright presence the expression 
of harsh feelings, and to prevent the estrangement 
breaking out into open warfare. 

While they would be sitting silent and sullen, at 
the same fireside, in the long back parlor that 


looked out upon the leaden sky and sea of these 
dull December days, he would be apparently ab 
sorbed in the perusal of some favorite old classic 
author, she would be engaged in knitting, the glit 
tering, fine, long needles glancing in and out be 
tween her delicate white fingers, in round after 
round of stitches for she was a great knitter of 
lamb S-wool hose the child would be sitting on the 
carpet somewhere near, earnestly employed in 
dressing her doll, drawing on her slate, or cutting 
figures out of paper but always singing some little 
song to herself, filling the room with harmony. 

How could the sullen couple break into open war 
fare in her presence? 

Yet sometimes they did so. A dispute would 
arise out of that dull silence, as a breeze would 
spring over the gray sea, and blow into storm in 
one case as in the other. 

The gust always arose from Eusebie s quarter. 
And Marcel always got the worst of it. 

Often little Gloria would see him grieved, 
humiliated, yet silent and patient, under his wife s 
false accusations and bitter reproaches. 

Then her soul would be filled with sympathy, her 
song would cease, her playthings drop, and she 
would get up and take her little stool and go and 
sit down by his side and slip her small hand into 
his and lay her bright head on his knee. 

This always quelled the rising storm. It pre 
vented Marcel from retorting, however much ex 
asperated he might be, and it eventually silenced 
Eusebie, for no one can keep up a quarrel alone. 

Gloria s interference did not always stop at sym 
pathy for Marcel. It sometimes, indeed, broke out 
into righteous indignation against Eusebie. 


On one occasion, she had heard her unhappy aunt 
taunt him with his want of fortune and charge 
him with mercenary motives in marrying her. 
She had seen her uncle s dark cheek flame, and had 
noticed how hard it was for him to keep his temper ; 
and she had left her play and gone and sat down 
by his side, and put her little arms around his knee 
and laid her shining head upon it. 

That had soothed and silenced him. He could not 
give way to his evil spirit in the presence of the 

But, mind, when at length he arose and left the 
parlor, and Gloria found herself alone with her 
aunt, she rebuked that passionate woman fear 

"You treat my uncle worse than you would dare 
to treat any negro slave on the promontory," she 
exclaimed, in angry tears. 

"He is not your uncle," was all the lady said in 

"He is your husband, then ! And you treat him 
worse than you would dare to treat any one else 
in the world, just because he is a gentleman and 
cannot retort upon you. You just dare to talk to 
old Phia as you talk to him, and she would give 
you such a tongue-lashing as you would not get 
over in a month." 

"If you do not cease your impertinence at once, 
Miss, I will give you such a whip-lashing as you 
won t get over in six !" exclaimed the angry woman. 

"No you will not, auntie ! If you were to lay a 
whip upon me, only once, you would repent it all 
your life, and you would never have a chance to 
do it again. You are my auntie; but my uncle is 
my guardian, and he would lead me out of this 


house and we would never return to it. You know 

"Oh, Heaven ! It is too true, for he loves me not 
at all !" breathed the poor woman, losing all self- 
command, and utterly breaking down in humilia 

In a moment the child was at her side at her 

"Oh, auntie, poor auntie, don t cry ! I have been 
naughty, very naughty! And I am sorry, very 
sorry ! Indeed you may strike me now, if you want 
to, for I do deserve it now !" she said, trying with 
all her heart to soothe the weeping woman. 

But Eusebie clasped the child to her bosom and 
burst into a passion of sobs and tears. 

"I love you, auntie, dear. I do love you, and I am 
so sorry I was so naughty," said the child, clasping 
the unhappy creature around the neck and lavish 
ing caresses on her. 

But Eusebie only sobbed the harder for all this. 

"And uncle loves you, auntie, dear, indeed he 
does, although you do always tell him that he 
doesn t care for you. I know he does, for when you 
are" the child was about to say "cross," but 
checked herself in time, and continued "when you 
are unhappy he looks at you so pitifully." 

"Oh, Gloria, you don t know anything about it, 
and I don t want his pity. I am not a dog or a 
beggar," exclaimed Eusebie, bitterly, as she put her 
niece from her lap and hurried from the parlor to 
her own room, to give unrestrained way to her 

This heart-sick and brain-sick poor woman was 
the plague and curse of the household, and such 
scenes as these were of frequent occurrence. 


Little Gloria acted always as a peacemaker, and 
always successfully; only once in a long time did 
her sense of justice rouse her indignation to the 
height of upbraiding her "auntie," and then her 
quick bursts of temper were followed, by as quick 
repentance and reparation. She was very im 

"A being of sudden smiles and tears." 

This sw r ift impulsiveness, with its sudden action 
and reaction, was the keynote to her whole char 
acter, the "kismet" of her life. 

As yet she was the peacemaker of the house, and 
all within it felt that this had been her mission 
to the household. Even the old family servants 
put their heads together confidentially, or shook 
them wisely, while they whispered : 

"Whatever de trouble is atween de two, marster 
and mist ess done been parted long a merry ago if 
it hadn t been for little Glo>." 

Indeed, this Promontory Hall, with its high, en 
closing walls, and the gray sea rolling around it, 
and the estranged, unhappy pair within it, must 
have been a very dull, dreary and depressing home 
for any child who had not, like Gloria, an ever 
springing fountain of gladness in her own soul. 

As soon as the long winter was over, and the sun 
shone warm and bright, and the earth grew green 
and the sea, blue, Gloria was out and abroad, with 
the earliest birds and flowers, as bright as the 
brightest, and as glad as the gladdest. 

With the revival of all nature there was a great 
revival of business also in the fisheries appertain 
ing to the Promontory and its neighboring isles. 


The place that was so solitary all the winter was 
now all alive with fishermen, whose huts and tents 
and sheds dotted all the little islands within sight 
from the promontory. No fishermen except those 
in the service of the family were allowed to haul the 
seines, or even cast a net from the home beach. 

Among the fishermen attached to the service of 
the family was a young lad of about twelve years 
old. His parents had passed away, leaving him in 
the care of his grandmother, who lived in a tiny, 
sandy islet that stood alone, half a mile east of the 

Who had been the original owner of the little 
sandhill no one ever knew; for the property was 
not of sufficient value to stimulate inquiries; and, 
besides, it had been for ages past occupied by a 
family of squatters, the present representatives of 
whom were David Lindsay and his grandmother. 

It was on a brilliant May morning that the little 
Gloria, in her wanderings about the promontory, 
came to a broken part of the old sea-wall, and, insti 
gated by curiosity, clambered over the stones and 
looked out upon a long stretch of sands upon which 
sheds, huts, and stranded boats were scattered 
among nets, seines, sea-weed and driftwood. 

The child, standing in the breach of the wall, 
paused to gaze with interest on the rude scene that 
was so entirely new to her. 

Then she saw a boy seated amid a drift of nets 
and seines, with a reel of coarse twine and a large 
wooden needle in his hand, busy with some work 
that quite absorbed his attention ; for he neither 
saw nor heard the approach of the little girl. 

She, on her part, stood still and watched him 
with surprise and delight 


The solitary child had not seen another child of 
any sort, white or black, girl or boy, for more than 
a year. She had lived only with grown-up people, 
and very "scroobious" and depressing grown-up peo 
ple at that. Now her heart leaped for joy at the 
sight of an angel from her own heaven another 

What if he was a poor little lad, with a torn 
straw hat set on his tangled black curls, a sunburned 
face, a patched coat, trowsers rolled up to his knees, 
and below them naked legs and feet? He was an 
other child an angel from her own heaven! He 
had come with the sun and the spring, with the 
birds and the flowers. Here was the crowning joy 
of the season indeed. 

He would be her playmate. He would not rail 
and weep like Eusebie, nor sigh and groan like Mar 
cel. He would be glad like herself. 

Without an instant s hesitation she ran down to 

Children, when left to their own intuition, are the 
most simple and natural democrats and repub 
licans. They care nothing and know nothing of 
caste. When misled by others, they may become 
the most repulsive little aristocrats alive. 

She stood before him breathless, smiling. 

As for the boy, he looked up at her in pleased sur 
prise at the brightest vision that had ever glad 
dened his eyes. 

"Little boy !" she exclaimed, in a tone of kindly 

"Yes, little girl," he answered, as he arose, drop 
ping his nets and taking off his torn hat. 

"I m so glad to see you !" she exclaimed, smiling. 

"So am I, you. Will you sit down on the boat? 


It is quite dry," lie said, as he pointed to the up 
turned skiff upon which he himself had been seated. 

"Oh, yes, I thank you. I would like to sit down 
because I have been walking all over the promon 
tory and I am so tired," she said, as she seated her 

"Put your feet on this stone, the sands are damp," 
said the lad, as he placed a flat piece of rock near 

"Yes ; I thank you. And you sit down, too. Don t 
you stand," she continued. He obeyed the little 
lady, and seated himself beside her. 

"Oh, I am so glad I found you!" she exclaimed, 
with dancing eyes. 

"So am I you ; very glad," he answered, quietly. 

"Have you got anybody to play with?" was her 
next question. 

"No," he replied. 

"No more have I. What is your name, little boy?" 


"Dave? That means David, doesn t it?" 

"Yes, David ; but everybody calls me Dave." 

"Well, what else is your name besides David?" 

"Lindsay David Lindsay." 

"Oh ! Uncle reads to us about one 

" Sir David Lyndsay of the Mount, 
Lord Lion, King at Arms. 

Was he any kin to you?" 

"No, there ain t no kings nor lions about here," 
replied the lad, laughing. 

"I don t know. I didn t think there was any chil 
dren or playmates about here; but after finding you 
I should not wonder if I found kings and lions and 
and dwarfs and fairies." 


"I never saw any about here," said the lad, de 

"David Lindsay, don t you want to know what 
my name is?" 

"Yes, I do." 

"Well, then, why don t you ask me?" 

"Because I don t know I didn t like to." 

"Well, my name is Maria da Gloria de la Vera !" 

"Oh ! what a long name !" 

"Yes, but it is a beautiful name, with a beautiful 

"What does it mean?" 

"I believe, but I don t quite know, that it means 
the Glory of the Truth, or something like that." 

"It is too long." 

"Yes, it is long as it is spelt and written ; but not 
as it is pronounced, for it is pronounced Davero 
Gloria Davero and the colored folks have got it 
down to little Glo ." 

"Oh, I like that ! Little Glo !" said the lad, with 

"Do you? I am so glad! What does your name 
mean, David Lindsay?" 

"I m blest if I know w r hat it means, if it means 
anything at all." 

"But it must mean something, David Lindsay. 
All names do." 

"Well, then, I will ask my grandmother." 

"Yes, do. Do you like me, David Lindsay?" 

"Oh ! yes, indeed I do." 

"So do I you, ever so much. What is that you 
are doing with that long wooden needle and big 
ball of cord, David Lindsay?" 

"I am mending nets." 


"Oh, how curious it is. Will you show me how to 
do it, David Lindsay? Is it hard to do?" 

"No, it is easy. I will be glad to show you," said 
the boy, who then instructed her in the simple stitch 
by which the nets were made. 

"What fun !" exclaimed the child, as her slender 
little fingers plied the wooden needle in and out 
among the meshes. "Who taught you to do this, 
David Lindsay?" 

"I " The boy hesitated and looked puzzled, 

and then said : "I don t know. I netted nets ever 
since I could remember, and before, too, I reckon, 
but not so large nets as these. I netted minnow 
nets first, I remember that. I s pose father must 
ha taught me." 

"Have you got a father and mother, David Lind 

"Yes, in Heaven," replied the lad, lifting his 
broken hat and bending his head. 

"So have I in Heaven. Have you got any broth 
ers and sisters, David Lindsay?" 

"No, not one." 

"No more have I. Have you got any playmates?" 

"No; never had any." 

"No more have I. But now I have you, and you 
have me, and we will be playmates, won t we?" 

"Yes, indeed !" 

"How old are you, David Lindsay?" 

"I am almost twelve; I shall be twelve next 
Fourth of July." 

"Oh, what a splendid birthday! I shall be eight 
the first of June!" 

"June is a nice month, too. The roses are all 
out," said the boy. 


The little girl fell into thought for a few minutes, 
and then she said : 

"What made you lift your hat and bend your 
head when you said Heaven/ David Lindsay?" 

"Grandmother taught me." 

" Grandmother ! Yes, you said grandmother be 

"She is father s mother. Father was drowned in 
a squall while out fishing when I was seven years 
old. That was in the spring ; mother died of pleu 
risy the next winter; a bitter, bitter winter, when 
the snow lay two or three feet deep on the ground 
and drifted around our little house, and there was 
no one to bring us wood from the main but grand 
mother and me, and we had to go for it in the boat 
and couldn t bring but a little at a time; and we 
had no doctor and that was the way poor mother 

Gloria s bright eyes were full of tears. She 
slipped her hand in that of the boy and said : 

"But maybe she would have died all the same. 
My mother had everything in the world, and she 
died. But you know neither of them really died; 
they went to heaven." 

"Yes," said the boy, in a low tone. 

"Now, ain t grown people queer, David Lindsay?" 


"The way they talk. They will say one minute a 
man has died and gone to heaven, and the next min 
ute they will say he is buried in such a church-yard. 
Now, how can he be in heaven and in the ground at 
the same time?" 

"I don t know. It is a great mystery," said the 
boy, gravely. 

"I don t like mysteries. I don t. They always 


make me feel as if I was in a cellar, or some dark 
place and in danger. And what is more, I don t 
believe in them. I don t believe my father and 
mother are buried in the ground. I believe they 
both went out to heaven before that which they used 
to live in was put in the ground. And, somehow, 
inside of myself I know it is so. Do you like to 
read, David Lindsay ?" she asked, abruptly. 

"Yes; I learned to read and write at St. Inigoes 
parish school ; but I have no books except Webster s 
Spelling Book, and I know every word of that by 
heart, even the fables." 

"Oh, then I can bring you ever so many books. I 
have a bookcase full, all of my own, in my room, 
and uncle has a great room full, from the floor up to 
the ceiling, all around the walls, you know." 

"That is very good of you. I do thank you. You 
are the little girl that lives up in the house, then 
Colonel de Crespigney s niece?" 

"Yes no. I mean I am Madame de Crespigney s 
niece; though, do you know, it seems so strange, I 
always feel as if he was more kin to me than she 

"I suppose you love him best; that must be the 
reason. Well, everybody loves Colonel de Crespi- 
gney. I know I do. He took me on to work here out 
of kindness, I am sure, for he couldn t really want 
me, you see, so many colored people as he has !" 

"He is very, very good, and very unhappy. Where 
do you live, David Lindsay?" she inquired, with the 
sudden transition of a child s thoughts. 

"Do you see that little, tiny bit of an island out 
there by itself?" he said, rising and pointing east 


"What! that little sandbank?" she exclaimed in 

"Yes, there is a house on it." 

"A mere shed." 

"We live in it, grandmother and I. And we have 
chickens and ducks, and a little bit of a garden, with 
a made soil, where we raise radishes and lettuce 
and cabbage and potatoes." 

"No flowers?" 

"Oh, yes ; a red rose-bush, and a white rose-bush, 
and pinks, and pansies and larkspurs." 

"Oh, that is pretty ! Is your grandmother nice?" 

"Oh ! I tell you !" heartily answered the boy. 

"Would she let me come to see her?" 

"Why, of course she would, and glad !" 

"Well, then, will you take me over there to see 
your grandmother, David Lindsay?" 

"Yes, indeed, that I will, if your uncle will let 
you go." 

"Oh, he ll let me. But how do you get over there, 
David Lindsay?" inquired the child, gazing over 
the expanse of water to the little dot that seemed to 
be about half-way between the promontory and the 
eastern horizon. 

"Why, in my little row-boat, to be sure. There, 
there it is, tied to that post," answered the boy, 
pointing to a little skiff that was rocking on the 

"Oh-h-h! And you ll take me in that? Oh-h-h! 
Won t that be splendid! When will you take me, 
David Lindsay?" she exclaimed, with all a child s 
eager delight in an anticipated holiday. 

"To-morrow, if they will let you go. To-night 
when I go home, I will tell my grandmother, and 


she will have something to please you when you 
come, you know." 

"Will she? Oh, how nice. I am so glad I found 
you. Ain t you glad you found me, David Lindsay? 1 

"Oh, I tell you ! Yes, indeed ! I was so lonesome 

"So was I ! But we have found one another ; we 
won t be lonesome any more, will we? We will 
have such good times, won t we now, David Lind 

"Ah !" exclaimed the boy. 

"But, oh, I say ! See here ! I can t net any more. 
This hard twine hurts my fingers dreadfully," said 
little Glo , looking at her bruised digits. 

"I thought it would. Put it up. It is dinner 
time, too." 

"Yes, I suppose it is, and I must go home," said 
the child, rising reluctantly. 

"Oh, no, please don t," eagerly exclaimed the boy. 
"Stay here and have some of my dinner." 

"Dinner!" exclaimed little Glo , looking all 
around them in vain search of a kitchen. 

"I have brought it with me in a basket," David 
explained, as he lifted a little ragged flag-basket 
from its hiding-place beside the boat. "Sit down 
and have some." 

"Oh, yes, thank you, so I will ! I like that !" she 
answered, promptly reseating herself. 

He then opened his basket, and took from it, first, 
a coarse crash towel, which he handed to her, say 

"Now please to set the table." 

"Set the table?" she echoed, in perplexity. 

"Yes, you know, spread that towel on the flat 


stone by you, and I will hand you out the things to 
put on it." 

"Oh! yes, I know and play we are housekeep 
ing!" she exclaimed, delightedly, as she laid the 

Then he handed her, in succession, a little 
cracked, blue-edged white plate, a broken knife and 
fork, a little paper of salt, another of bread, six 
hard boiled eggs, and a dozen young radishes, all of 
which she arranged upon the "table" with funny 
little housewifely care. 

-Now, this will have to be broiled," he continued, 
as he took from the bottom of the basket a smoked 
red herring on a cabbage leaf and laid it on the 

"Broiled!" echoed the little housekeeper, as she 
looked all about in search of a fire. 

"Yes," he answered, laughing, as he went and 
gathered up some dry, decayed driftwood, and broke 
it into small chips, and piled it up on some stones. 
Then he took a tinder box, flint and steel, from his 
pocket, struck a light, and kindled a fire. 

"Oh! that is grand!" exclaimed the delighted 
child, as she watched him, for all this was play to 

When the fire had burned down to coals he laid 
the herring on it. 

A fine appetizing flavor soon arose. 

Little Glo watched the boy as he turned the her 
ring until it was done, and then put it on the blue- 
edged white plate and set it on the table. 

"Oh! isn t this just perfectly splendid!" again 
exclaimed the child, as the two sat down to the 
primitive meal. 


They chatted faster than they ate at least little 
Glo did. 

When it was over and the plates and knife and 
fork had been put back in the basket, the girl arose, 
very unwillingly, to depart. 

"I must go now," she said; "they will all be look 
ing for me. But, oh ! I have had just such a grand 
time, and I am so glad we found each other ! Ain t 
you, David Lindsay?" 

"Yes, indeed!" exclaimed the boy. 

She laughed, kissed her hand to him, and ran off 
home, singing as she went. 

This was the first meeting between Gloria de la 
Vera and David Lindsay ,the poor fisher-lad, whom, 
a few years later, in her utter desperation, she asked 
to marry her ; but many strange events were to hap 
pen before she could be driven to such despair as to 
cast her beautiful and blameless self, with her rank 
and fortune, at the feet of this humble lad, "un 
learned and poor," and lose herself in the deep dis 
honor of a low and loveless marriage. 



She was his star. BYRON. 

GLORIA, singing as she went, and skipping like a 
kid from point to point, over the breach in the sea 
wall, and dancing through the old grass meadows 
and turnip fields hurried on towards her home. 

Suddenly her song ceased, and she stood still. 


She saw her uncle walking alone with slow and 
melancholy steps, and his head bowed down upon 
his breast. 

She would have spoken to him, but he waved his 
hand for her to go on to the house. 

She looked at him wishfully, hesitatingly ; but he 
only smiled sadly on her and repeated his gesture 
with more emphasis. 

Then she obeyed him and reluctantly went on. 

"That was like meeting a ghost," she said; and 
she sang no more that day. 

She entered the house and met Sophia on her way 
through the hall with a pail of hot water in her 
hand and a look of indignation on her face. 

"What s the matter, Phia? Has anything hap 
pened? I met uncle outside the park wall and he 
looked awful ! awful !" said the child. 

"Well he mought," replied the woman, wrath- 
fully. "There s been the biggest row you ebber seed 
in yer life, and you not here to vent of it." 

"Was it auntie and uncle?" inquired the child, in 
a tone of awe. 

"Hi, who else? Yes, honey, it was master and mis- 
t ess and de debbil ! And you not here to carcum- 
went Satin!" 

"Oh, dear me, I m so sorry. How did it all hap 
pen, Phia?" 

"Hi! How I know, chile? Iwa n tdere. It hap 
pen in de long sittin room, in course, where dey 
most in gen al sits. Fust fing we cullud people 
knowed was de bell rung wiolent, an I run up an 
foun mist ess in fits an inarster tryin to fetch her 
to. We toted her up stairs tween us an put her 
to bed. But soon s ebber she could speak she seiu 
marster out o de room. How does it allers 


honey? De debbil! Dere ll be murder done here 
some ob dese days always the debbil, an dis time 
he had it all his own fernal way, cause you wa n t 
here to carcumwent him." 

"Oh, I am so sorry. Poor uncle! poor auntie!" 
sighed the child, with a look of age and care coming 
over her bright young face. 

"I m mad ; I ain t a bit sorry ; I m mad. If dem 
two fools was chillun, dey d just get good hoopins 
for quarrelin so ; an bein grown-up dults, dey de- 
sarves hoopin ten times as much as chillun, cause 
dey s big ? nuff to know better ! I gwine up now to 
put her feet in hot water. I d like to put him and 
her bofe in hot water up to deir necks, an keep em 
dere till they promise to have deirselves better!" 
exclaimed Phia, as she took up the pail and went 
up stairs. 

Gloria looked after her. She felt as if she ought 
to have rebuked the woman for her manner of speak 
ing ; but then she did not wish to raise another do 
mestic storm, and she knew that Phia had a tem 
per that blazed up at a word, as stubble flames up 
at a spark. Indeed, if the child had been required 
to write Phia s name, she would naturally have 
written it Fire, and thought that she was right. 

She hung her hat and sack on the hall-rack, and 
then went softly up to her aunt s room to sit with 
her and be ready to run on any errand that was re 

She sat patiently with her auntie all the after 
noon, reading a volume of Peter Parley s story 

In the evening she left her, quietly sleeping, and 
went down stairs to make tea for her uncle. 

It was a rather silent meal. De Crespigney was 


absorbed in thought, and never spoke to the child 
unless she asked him some question, and then he 
answered absently, though in the gentlest tone. 

After tea she left him sitting in his old leathern 
arm-chair by the small wood-fire that the chill air 
rendered necessary even in June, and she went up 
to her own room and crept into bed. 

The next morning Madame de Crespigney ap 
peared at the breakfast-table as if nothing had hap 
pened. These stormy days are followed by calm 
mornings in the moral as well as in the physical at 

Gloria knew from experience that after such a 
tempestuous misunderstanding as they had had on 
the previous day, her uncle and aunt would have to 
be left alone to come to a reconciliation. She was 
also glad of such a good excuse to go out. 

So, directly after breakfast, she went up to her 
bedroom, opened her glass-doored bookcase, and, 
after taking down and putting up volume after vol 
ume, she selected two which she thought would be 
most beneficial and acceptable to her new friend 
these were the charming school-books : Peter Par 
ley s First Book of Geography and Peter Parley s 
First Book of History, then just coming into use, 
both profusely illustrated with maps and pictures. 

She put on her little rough-and-ready gray sack 
and her felt hat for it was still chilly on the sea 
side in early June took the two books under her 
arm and left the house. 

Singing as she tripped along, she hurried blithely 
down to the breach in the wall, where she found the 
fisher boy busily engaged in smoothing that passage 
by laying the fallen stones a little leveller. 

"Oh, good-morning, David Lindsay! Will you 


take ine over in your row-boat to see your grand 
mother this morning?" she asked as she came up. 

"Oh, yes, indeed I will, and glad to do it !" replied 
the lad, lifting his torn hat from his black curls and 
holding out his hand to help her across the broken 

She sat down on the boat to recover her breath, 
while he said : 

"I stayed here last night until ten o clock, work 
ing to finish my nets, and so get time to take you 
over to-day. And then I came at daybreak this 
morning, and have been here ever since, so I have 
earned a holiday." 

"Oh, how good of you to take so much trouble for 
me; but how could you see to do your work, after 
the sun went down?" 

"The stars came out. It was one of the brightest 
starlight nights I ever saw! Besides, netting, you 
know, is such mere finger-work, that I could almost 
do it with my eyes shut. Are you ready to go?" 

"Presently. Sit down here by me, I want to show 
you something." 

The boy seated himself beside her. 

"Here," she said, producing the First Book in 
Geography, and opening upon a page of engravings 
in sections representing the five races of man. 

"Oh-h-h I" exclaimed the boy in delight, as he took 
the volume from her hands and gazed with devour 
ing eyes upon the fascinating page. 

He had never seen a picture of an Indian, an 
Ethiopian, a Mongolian, or a Malay in all his life, 
and now he gazed in a breathless rapture upon 

Pictures were almost unknown to him the pic 
tures in his grandmother s old family Bible and the 


half-a-dozen little illustrations above the fables in 
Webster s Spelling Book, being all that he had ever 

"Oh-h-h, you can t think how much I do thank you 
for lending me this splendid book !" he exclaimed, 
with fervent gratitude. 

"Oh, indeed, I am ever so much obliged to you 
for being so pleased with it! It makes me feel so 
happy, you know! But turn over the next page. 
Oh, there are ever so many more nice pictures in 

"Are there?" he asked, and immediately turned 
the page to discover more and more treasures 
Esquimaux and white bears of the Arctic circle; 
elk, moose, and reindeer, and red Indians of the 
northern lakes and forests ; seals, beavers, Cana 
dians, New England farms, churches, school-houses, 
New York seaports, shipping, and warehouses; 
Western prairies, forests and rivers ; Southern bays, 
isles, and cotton plantations. 

"Oh ! oh ! oh !" 

What a treasury of happiness to the poor boy, 
hungering and thirsting for knowledge, who had 
scarcely ever seen three books or a dozen pictures 
in his life before, and who had scarcely any con 
ception of any world beyond the horizon of his nat 
ural vision ! 

And as yet he had seen only a few index pictures 
of North America. 

South America and all the Western Hemisphere 
was to follow in that delightful book. 

"Oh, you never can know how much I thank you 
for this beautiful book!" he exclaimed, with en 

"Why, don t I tell you I am ever so much obliged 


to you for liking it so well !" said Gloria, her own 
blue eyes dancing with the delight of delighting. 

Over and over he turned the bewitching pages, 
finding more and more pleasure as he went on even 
to the end of the book the picture of the Cape of 
Good Hope, with Cape Colony. 

He had taken some time to look through the vol 
ume, pausing long over each picture. So when he 
closed it, he arose and said : 

"I could sit all day and night and look at this 
book, and forget to eat or sleep, I do believe; but I 
reckon it is time for us to go now." 

"No, sit down again. I have got something else 
to show you," she answered. 

He obediently reseated himself, and she put in his 
hand "The First Book of History," profusely illus 
trated with pictures of battles and conventions and 
portraits of military heroes and statesmen. 

"Oh-h-h !" again exclaimed the boy, as he opened 
at a portrait of George Washington on one side, and 
the signing of the Declaration of Independence on 
the other. 

He turned over page after page, finding fresh food 
for intellect and imagination in every one, w r hile the 
little girl watched him with her blue eyes sparkling 
in sympathetic pleasure. 

"Oh, how rich I shall feel, with these two books 
to read every night ! I shall never go to bed at dusk 
when granny does because I am lonesome. I shall 
never be lonesome now," he said. 

"I am so glad, and so very much obliged to you 
for being so happy over them, David Lindsay," she 
repeated, w r ith more emphasis. 

There is no knowing how long the two children 
might have lingered, sitting side by side on the old 


boat he poring with rapture over the book, she 
watching his enjoyment with ecstasy ; but the hour 
of noon came and passed, and the healthy young 
appetite of the boy would not allow him to "forget 
to eat." 

"Oh, how late it is!" he exclaimed, reluctantly 
closing the book just at the picture of General 
Washington receiving the sword of Lord Cornwallis 
after the battle of Yorktown. "Come, we had better 
go now." 

"Well, yes, I suppose we had. You can read the 
books every night, can t you, David Lindsay?" 

"Yes, indeed. And when you are up at the house 
enjoying yourself with all your friends, you may 
think of me reading your books." 

"Oh! they are your books, David Lindsay," she 
hastened to exclaim. 

"I daren t take them from you only as a loan; 
but, oh! I can never thank you enough for that. 
Come carefully over all this rubbish. Let me take 
your hand. There, now, step into the boat and sit 
down while I untie her. Don t be afraid. She will 
not turn over." 

The child suffered him to put her into the rough 
little old shell that lay rocking on the sea. 

He quickly unmoored the boat, got into it, seated 
himself, and rowed towards the little sand-hill that 
seemed a mere mote on the water. 

David rowed vigorously, and the little skiff shot 
over the sea, and rapidly approached the island. 

First she saw the sandy little hillock ; next, that 
there was a tiny house on it, with trees on the 
farther side ; then, as the boat reached the shore and 
grounded, she saw that the house was a small cot 
tage with a gable roof and one chimney; with one 


door and window on the ground floor, and one 
tiny, square window above in the gable. There were 
no shutters to the windows, but they were shaded 
from within by flowered wall-paper blinds. The 
little house was whitewashed with lime, and the door 
was painted with red ochre, a coarse coloring mat 
ter got from the soil on the main. A little garden 
around the house, with a "made soil," was fenced 
in with a whitewashed picket fence. Lilies, Canter 
bury-bells, hollyhocks, pinks, larkspurs, and other 
sweet, old-fashioned flowers grew in the front yard. 
A red rose-bush and a white rose-bush were trained, 
one on each side of the door. A white dog, of a 
nondescript race, was asleep on the step, and a 
black kitten was curled up snugly on his back. 
These proverbial "natural enemies" had never been 
anything but loving friends. 

At the approach of David the dog sprang up, 
wide awake, overturning the kitten, who put up her 
back, gaped, and stretched herself, while Jack ran 
forward and leaped upon his master, who did not 
order him "down, sir !" but patted his head and re 
turned caress for caress. 

The red door opened then, and a smiling old 
woman appeared Mrs. Lindsay, David s grand 

She was a small, plump, fair-faced, blue-eyed 
dame, with the white hair of sixty years parted 
plainly over her forehead, and banded back under 
a clean linen cap. She wore a striped blue and 
white cotton gown, of her own spinning and weav 
ing, and a white handkerchief folded over her 
bosom, and a white apron tied before her gown. 

She came forward, smiling pleasantly as she held 
out her hand to the child, while she spoke to David. 


"Is this the little lady you have brought to visit 
me? I am very pleased to see thee, my dear." 

"Oh, thank you, ma am ! It was so nice of you to 
let me come ! And I like David Lindsay. He is all 
the playmate I have got. But he s splendid !" said 
the child, with enthusiasm. 

The old woman smiled on her, patted the tiny 
hand she held in her own, and then led her into the 

It was a good sized room, with clean, white 
washed walls, the one window shaded with a home 
made blind of flowered wall-paper; the floor of 
wide planks, perfectly bare, yet scrubbed to a 
creamy whiteness; in one corner a neat bed, with 
a patchwork quilt and snowy pillows; in another 
corner a loom, with a piece of cloth in process of 
weaving ; in a third, a large spinning-wheel ; in the 
fourth, a corner cupboard, with glass doors in the 
upper part, through which might be seen the clean, 
coarse, blue-edged crockery ware, and the bright 
pewter dishes of the little menage. 

In the middle of the floor stood a table covered 
with a coarse but snow-white cloth, and adorned 
with blue-edge cups and saucers and plates, while 
on the clean, red ochre-painted hearth stood a tea 
pot and several covered plates and dishes, before 
the clear fire in the small open fire-place. 

"Come, lass, let me take off ? ee coat," said the 
kind little woman, beginning to unbutton and untie 
until she had relieved the child of her hat and 

"Now, sit ? ee down, lass, while I put dinner on 
the table," she continued, depositing her small visi 
tor on a low chip-bottomed chair, near the window- 


sill, on which, stood a box of mignonette, that filled 
the homely room with fragrance. 

" Ee s late, Dave. I thought ee d be here wi the 
lass an hour ago, and had all ready for ? ee," said 
the old woman, as she began to place dinner on the 

"We were reading of a book what the little lady 
loaned me," replied the boy, as he carefully placed 
the two volumes on each side the Bible, which 
stood upon a chest of drawers at the end of the 
room, between the bed and the corner cupboard. 

"It was my fault. I stopped David Lindsay to 
show him the books," put in the child. 

"It wasn t ? ee fault, then. It was ee goodness, 
little lass. And it s na great matter. The dinner 
is no sich that it can be spoiled," said Dame Lind 
say, as she placed the last dish on the table, and 
then led her small guest to a seat. 

Poor as these cotters were in all things else, they 
were not poor in regard to food. 

The sea supplied them with fish for immediate 
use, and for salting away against winter; the two 
pigs that they bought and raised at a trifling cost 
every year, provided them with pork and bacon; 
the small poultry-yard with fowls and eggs; the 
patch of garden with vegetables and fruit ; the little 
Alderney cow with milk and butter. 

The few other provisions they needed were easily 
procurable at the nearest country store on the main, 
in exchange for the excellent cotton hose and mit 
tens knit by the industrious and skillful hands of 
the old dame. 

Other trifling expenses of the little household 
were met by the money earned by David on the fish 
ing landing of the promontory. 


The dainty midday meat set before the little lady 
guest was not at all an every-day affair, but was 
got up expressly for her. It was very attractive 
nice fragrant tea, with rich cream and white sugar ; 
nice light, home-made bread, with sweet, fresh but 
ter ; fried bluefish, just out of the sea; poached eggs 
on toast; boiled spring chicken; mashed potatoes, 
green peas, lettuce, radishes, and, finally, cherry 
pie, strawberries and cream, and a plenty of new 

Little Glo> ate well, like a healthy child, with an 
excellent appetite, and no one near to curb it. 

"It is the nicest dinner I ever had in all the days 
of my life, and I have been at big dinner parties, 
too, before I came to the promontory!" she de 
clared, with equal frankness and emphasis, as she 
arose from the table. 

At least, it was the most enjoyable. 

The old dame smiled on her, and David felt so 
pleased and proud ! 

Ay! the Earl of Leicester entertaining Queen 
Elizabeth at Kenilworth Castle could not have felt 
more elevated in spirits by her majesty s august 
approbation than was the fisher-boy by the pleasure 
of his little lady guest. 

"Mayhap ee ll come again to see us, little lady," 
said the old dame. 

"Oh, indeed, indeed, indeed I will ! Just as often 
as you ll please to let me come! Oh, it is so nice 
here ! I ll be sure to come just as often as ever you 
will let me come!" exclaimed the child, heartily. 

"That will be as often as ee likes," said the old 

Then, assisted by David, she hastily cleared away 
the table, taking the dishes into the "lean-to" be- 


hind the cottage, there to remain until she could 
wash them up after the departure of the visitor. 

Then she set herself to entertain the little lady. 

She showed her all the few curiosities of the cot 
tage some strange South Sea shells that had been 
brought home by a sailor ancestor ages before, and 
which now decorated the low wooden chimney shelf ; 
then the rusty old gun that had been carried by her 
own grandfather in the Revolutionary War; then 
some stuffed birds, some skeletons of strange fish, 
and some odd-looking pebbles from the beach. 

Next she exhibited some of the small treasures of 
her chest of drawers a curious patch-work quilt 
that had won the prize in a certain agricultural 
and industrial fair held at St. Inigoes many years 

"And did you sew all these little pieces of colored 
calico and white cotton together with your own 
fingers ?" inquired the child, with interest. 

"Yes, dearie, I did." 

"Oh, how curious and how pretty ! How I would 
like to do that ! We have got ever and ever so many 
calico and cotton pieces in the scrap-bags at home! 
If I bring some over here, wben I come again, will 
you show me how to cut the pieces into leaves, and 
flowers, and things, and sew them together like 

"Yes, little lass, I will teach ? ee with good will ; 
for I do think it a merit to save up the scraps and 
turn them to good account, though they do tell me 
that now-a-days quilts are made by masonry, and 
sell cheaper than we could make em by hand. Ee 
sees, dearie, I use to make ? em to sell; but now I 
can t get anybody to give me enough to pay for my 
work on em. So now I knit socks and mittens." 


"They make them by machinery, too," said the 

"Yes, and I shouldn t wonder and they didn t 
come to hatch chickens by masonry some of these 
days! Well a-day! No masonry stockings can 
eekill my knitted stockings, and that the store 
keeper knows, and allus takes em from me and pays 
me well in tea and sugar, and whatever I may want. 
As to the quilt-piecing, lass, I ll teach ee with good 
will. Ee s a plenty of leisure, I ll warrant, and 
? ee s well spend it that way in saving the scraps and 
turning em to account as in another," concluded 
the canny old dame, as she folded her prize quilt, 
replaced it, and closed the drawer. 

"Oh, I think it is such pretty and curious work, 
and it is so economical!" said the little child- 
woman. "I shall be so glad to learn !" 

"She likes to learn everything she sees going on," 
added David, who, with his hands in his pockets, 
stood a smiling spectator of the scene. 

"That s right. Larn all ee can, little lass. Now 
come wi me, and I ll show ee the young ducks that 
were hatched yesterday." 

"Oh !" cried the child, jumping up in glee. "I 
never saw young ducks in all my life ! What a nice 
place this is !" 

"What! Don t they show ee the young things 
up by, at the house?" inquired the dame. 

"No, ma am ; they never thought of it, I reckon ; 
no more did I," answered the child, as she followed 
her conductress out into the poultry-yard. 

She saw the young ducklings that were just out ; 
then she saw the little chickens that were a week 
old, and seemed to know as much about life as she 


herself did. Then she was taken through the gar 
den, and she saw the strawberry bed and the one 
cherry tree, with its bright red fruit hiding in its 
green leaves, and the crooked apple tree that bore 
the green sweetings which would soon be ripe, and 
the currant bushes along the walk, with the small 
beds of peas and cabbage and corn between them, 
and then the bee hive and the two white pigs, and 
Winny, the little black and white cow, in her shed. 

Then they went in. 

"Oh ! what a nice place this is ! The nicest place 
I ever saw !" said the child. 

" Ee must come often to see it, if 7 ee likes it so 
well," said the dame, who felt flattered by the 
child s sincere admiration ; " ee must come often, 
but now it is getting late i the afternoon, and I 
must send ee home to ee friends, lest harm come 
to ee through this visit." 

David, who had kept close to the pair all the day, 
now left them to get the boat ready. 

The old dame carefully put on the child s hat and 
sack, and then threw a shawl over her own head, 
and led the little one down to the water s edge, 
where David stood in the boat, waiting. 

The child threw her arms around the old woman s 
neck, and kissed her heartily, many times, thanking 
her warmly for the "happy, happy day" she had 

The dame responded cordially. 

David then handed the little girl into the boat, 
unmoored, and rowed rapidly for the promontory 
landing, which they reached in a few minutes. 

The sun was just setting. 

"Oh, David Lindsay, I have had such a splendid 


time! Oh! I am so glad I found you!" exclaimed 
little Glo , as he helped her out of the boat. 

"Oh, so am I! Ever so glad! And I think we 
ought to thank the Lord !" he added, solemnly. 

"Oh ! I will, when I say my prayers to-night. Are 
you going to study your books this evening, David 

"Yes, indeed. What are you going to do?" 

"Oh, I I think I will look out some more books 
for you, and then I will hunt out some pretty bright 
pieces of calico from the scrap-bag, to learn to make 
patch- work quilts, and have them ready against the 
next time I go to see your grandmother." 

"When will you come again? To-morrow?" anx 
iously inquired the toy, as he leaned on his oar. 

"Oh, no, not to-morrow; not to see your grand 
mother, to put her to so much trouble, you know; 
but I will come down here to the landing to see you, 
David Lindsay." 

"Oh, yes, please do." 

"Well, good-bye, David Lindsay." 


"God bless you, David Lindsay!" 

"And you, too." 

"I won t forget to thank Him when I say my 
prayers to-night." 

"No more will I." 

"Well, good-bye again, David Lindsay." 

"Good-bye." He did not want to call her Miss 
de la Vera, much less Miss Gloria ; he could not call 
her little Glo\ He felt, without in the least under 
standing his feelings, that the first style would be 
too cold and stiff, and the last perhaps too familiar, 
so he called her "you," putting all respect in his 
low and modulated tone. There was much of na- 


ture s gentleman in this poor little lad in the ragged 
straw hat. 

He waited, hat in hand, until she had turned and 
tripped lightly over the broken sea wall and passed 
out of sight. 

Then he covered his head, sat down in his boat, 
took the oar and reluctantly shoved off from the 
shore, while she ran home, singing and dancing as 
she went. 

She ran into the house and went directly to seek 

"Have they been worried about me, Phia?" she 

"No, honey; dey s been too much took up wid 
spoundin an splainin bout yes day s fuss to fink 
? bout you. Leastways, mist ess was ; dough marster 
did quire arter you when dey sat down to dinner an 
you wa n t dere. Says he: 

" Whey s de chile? 

"Says she: 

" Oh, never mind de chile ; she s running round 
de place somew ere, an Phia can give her her din 
ner when she comes in. Tell me what you meant 

by somefin or oder, Lord knows what, honey ; 

but at it dey went, spoundin and splainin . But 
where is you been all de live-long day, little Glo ?" 
demanded the woman. 

"Oh, Phia ! I have had such a happy, happy day T 
replied the child. 

And then she told the cook all about her visit, 
adding : 

"And granny Lindsay begged me to come ever so 

"Yes, honey; mighty good ob de ole woman. I 
knows her, honey, and has buyed mittens ob her 


woolen mittens, which she knitted, Iv -ney. But you 
mustn t go too often, honey. One fing, you mustn t 
be too intimit wid people ob dat low order ob deei- 
ety. Not as I am sayin but dey may be jes as good 
as we is, in de sight ob de Lord, if dey haves deir- 
selves; but still, ciety is to be despected. An 
another fing, honey, is, dey can t deford it; dey 
can t, indeed ; dey can t deford to tain a little lady 
on fry chickens an sich, w r erry often." 

Now, the first clause of this speech, concerning 
caste, slipped through the child s ears without mak 
ing the slightest impression, but the second clause, 
about the expense of her visit to the fisherman s cot 
tage, fixed her attention. 

"Oh, yes, I thought of that ; so I told David Lind 
say I could not go to-morrow. Phia, you are right," 
she said, as she ran up stairs. She did not go to 
the sitting-room to interrupt the tete-d tete of her 
aunt and uncle, but up to the attic to hunt for 
bright pieces in the scrap-bag, singing and dancing 
as she went. 

When she met her relatives at tea that night they 
did not even think of asking her where she had 
been. They seemed to take it for granted that she 
had come in soon after dinner, and had been prop 
erly attended by Phia. 

So the child s holiday escaped their notice. 

The next morning, Gloria, true to her promise, 
went down to the landing, wiiere she found David 
sitting in the old boat, mending nets. 

His face broke into a smile as he took off his hat 
and stood up to receive her. 

"Good-morning, David Lindsay. Did you study 
your book last night?" she inquired, with childish 


"Oh, yes, indeed ! And I have brought the geog 
raphy here with me to take a glimpse of it now 
and then; but it is such a temptation to slight my 
work, that I shall have to leave it home after this," 
replied the lad, still standing, hat in hand. 

"Oh, no, don t you do that, David Lindsay ! Please 
don t ! Bee, now, sit down and take up your netting 
and go on with it, and I will sit by and read the les 
sons out, and ask the questions at the bottom of the 
page, so you can tell if you know them." 

"Oh, yes, I shall like that ; for then I can do my 
work and learn my lesson at the same time. How 
good you are to me. What makes you so good to 

"Why," she said, opening her blue eyes wide and 
looking at him with surprise, "don t you know? 
You are my playmate, and we are going to play 

"Oh, yes." 

"Now give me the book, David Lindsay, and sit 
down and go on with your netting. Now, how far 
had you got?" she inquired, when they were seated 
opposite each other in the old stranded boat. 

"Up to What is a cape? " 

"Oh, yes, I can find the place. Now pay attention, 
David Lindsay," she said, as she took up the book, 
opened it, assumed a grave, school-ma am air, and 
asked : 

" What is a cape? " 

" *A cape is a point of land pretending into the 
sea, " answered the pupil. 

" Ex-tending into the sea, David Lindsay," cor 
rected the little teacher. 

" EX-tending into the sea, " emphatically 
amended the pupil. 


"That is right. Now, then, What is a promon 
tory? " 

" *A promontory is a high point of land 



"EX-tending into the sea !" 

"That is right, David Lindsay. You will soon 
learn geography." 

She went on with the lesson, slowly drilling it 
into the head of the boy, who, with his divided at 
tention, was a fair illustration of "the pursuit of 
knowledge under difficulties." 

But before his little teacher left him that day, he 
had managed to master the principal divisions of 
land and water, and better than all, he had been 
inspired with the love and desire of knowledge. 

This was the little lady s mission to the fisher-lad, 
who, a few years later, in the desperation of her 
unparalleled extremity, she was to ask to be her 



She grew a flower of mind and eye. 


WE have lingered a little over these first days of 
their childish friendship, because they were types 
of so many days that followed, all through the bud 
ding spring, the blooming summer, and the fruitful 


The little girl was allowed to do very much as she 
pleased by her studious uncle and invalid aunt, as it 
was scarcely possible that she would <k run into any 
danger, or fall into any sin," on so isolated a place 
as the promontory, where there was neither evil 
companions or wild beasts to deprave or destroy 

On the main she might have been more closely 
looked after; but here she w r as so safe that not a 
thought was given to her safety. 

So, every day, when it did not rain, little Gloria 
went down to the landing to see her playmate and 
read to him while he mended old nets and seines, 
or made new ones. 

At first she was only "playing school," but later 
on she understood her work and grew interested in 
the progress of her pupil; and thus her play rose 
into "a labor of love." 

Together they went through the First Book in 
Geography, and the First Book in History, and the 
Primary Grammar. 

And in this way the child not only advanced her 
pupil playmate, but refreshed her own memory in 
those studies, which had been too much neglected 
since her arrival at the promontory. 

A pure, sweet, and faithful affection grew up be 
tween the two children, such as we have sometimes 
seen between two little girls or two little boys; only 
because neither Gloria nor David had any other 
playmate to divide their attention, their innocent 
affection was all the stronger, deeper, and more de 
voted in its exclusiveness. 

Very often, too, the fisher-boy brought an invita 
tion from his grandmother to the little lady to 
spend a day on the sand-hill which the old dame 


called her home. It was always accepted, and al 
ways Gloria had "a happy, happy day." 

She learned of the old cottager to net, to knit, to 
sew, to piece patchwork quilts out of scraps of 
bright calico and white linen, and to plait door 
mats out of strips of brilliant cloth or flannel arts 
not likely to be of much use to the West Indian heir 
ess but she liked to learn them, notwithstanding. 

"Wouldn t I make a right good little cottage girl, 
after all, Granny Lindsay?" she once asked her old 
friend, in her childish love of approbation. 

" Ee would, my darling," said the old dame, ten 
derly. " Ee would make a helpful, loving little lass 
by the cottage fire, or a gracious benign princess in 
a palace. The world s breath of sunshine is for ee, 
my flower, from the cottage to the palace." 

"I saw some palaces in Havana, but I would 
rather have a cottage just like this ! Oh, I think a 
cottage is so nice and cosy, and so SPLENDID !" ex 
claimed the little girl, with child-like exaggeration 
and misapplication of words. 

So the once lonely child found much joy in her 
humble friends, giving and receiving good, while 
spring bloomed into summer, and summer ripened 
into autumn, and autumn faded into winter. 

The came cold, and frost, and change, a bitter 
change for little Gloria. 

Her playmate s work was now the clearing up of 
the fishing landing, mending boats and oars, and 
putting them away for winter work that could not 
go on parallel with his studies, which were now 
pursued in the evenings at his own home. 

Yet Gloria came down late in the afternoon on 
every clear day to hear him say his lessons. He told 


her that this helped him on "ever so much." And it 
pleased her. 

One day after sunset, when she had heard her 
pupil s lesson in a very elementary book of astron 
omy, and had praised his quick apprehension and 
patient application, and had greatly encouraged 
him, as she always did, she took leave and ran home/ 
singing and dancing as she went. 

When she reached the house, she found Phia at 
the door, looking out for her. 

"Oh, for goodness sake, come in, child," said the 
woman, in a frightened tone. 

"What what is the matter? What has hap 
pened?" cried Gloria, catching terror from the 

"I dunno. Somefin* awful! Mistress has been 
goin on at that rate! She done put de debbil in 
marster now, sure ! Mind, I tell you, honey, dere ll 
be murder done here some ob dese days ! Mark my 
words I" 

With a slight scream the terrified child fled from 
this prophetess of evil toward the sitting-room, 
where she heard the sound of high words. 

She opened the door and hurried in. 

And this was what she saw : 

Her uncle standing on the corner of the hearth, 
with his elbow on the mantel-piece, his head leaning 
on his hand, whose fingers were clutched into his 
black hair; his starting black eyes staring down 
upon the floor; his black brows knitted, his teeth 
clenched, his face pallid with suppressed passion. 

Her aunt, with her white dress and yellow hair 
in wild disorder, as if her own desperate hands had 
rent and torn them, was raging up and down the 
floor like a tigress in her cage, pouring forth all the 


gall and venom of her jealous fury, in words that 
might never be forgiven or forgotten. 

Even the child intuitively perceived this, and 
feared that the man, stung to madness by the 
woman s venomed tongue, might be driven to some 
rash act, fatal to them both. 

She looked, shuddering, from one to the other. 

It was terrible to see so fragile a creature as 
Eusebie in the power of such a tremendous passion, 
that seemed as if it must shrivel her frame as a cob 
web in a flame. But it was more terrible to see in 
Marcel s whole aspect the chained devil that might 
break loose in destroying frenzy at any moment. 
Full of fear and horror, the child crept trembling 
to the man s side, put her arms around his waist, 
which she could just reach, looked up piteously in 
his face and whispered, in her coaxing tone : 

"Uncle, uncle, uncle." 

"My little angel," he murmured in reply, as his 
stern dark face softened and brightened. 

"Come away from that man this instant, Gloria," 
cried Eusebie, stopping in her wild walk and stamp 
ing with fury. "Come away from him, I command 
you! He is not your uncle! You shall not call 
him uncle ! He is a traitor and a villain ! Come 
away, I say!" 

The child did not obey; she could not move; she 
was half paralyzed by fear and horror, and more 
likely to sink than to stand. 

The man put his arm around her, and drew her 
closer to him. 

The woman stamped with fury. 

"Let my niece go, you caitiff !" she screamed. 

He did not reply to this, but lifted his head and 
glared at her, while his face darkened and hardened. 


The terrified child terrified for others, not for 
herself pressed closely to him, as if, in extremity, 
she would hold him back by her own baby strength, 
and moaned, coaxingly: 

"Uncle, uncle, uncle dear." 

Again his face changed; he stooped towards her 
and she laid her cheek against his lips. 

"Come away from that man, or I will tear you 
from him ! He is not your uncle ! He is no kin to 
you ! He is nothing to you ! No ! I thank Heaven 
that not one drop of his false, black bood runs in the 
veins of any one belonging to me ! I have not even 
a child! Ha! ha! I know the reason! Fiends are 
not permitted to be fathers!" hissed the woman, 
with all the hate and scorn that Satan could cast 
into her face and voice. 

Here the man s eyes glared so fiercely, while his 
brow grew so black, that the child clasped him in a 
frantic clutch, moaning, inarticulately, some words 
of piteous deprecation to restrain him. 

"Leave that wretch this instant, I command you ! 
His contact is infamy! Am I not to be obeyed? 
Oh, then I will snatch you from him!" screamed 
the woman, in blind fury, as she sprang towards 
them ; but he was too quick for her. 

He lifted the half-fainting child in his arms and 
bore her swiftly out of the room. 

"Oh, uncle, she is crazy ! She does not know what 
she says! Don t mind her! Don t go back in the 
room," coaxed the child, as she put up her hand 
and stroked and patted his cheek. "Uncle, dear, 
don t go back in the room ! Come with me to Granny 
Lindsay s cottage. Oh, it is so heavenly there." 

But now the man paid but little attention to what 
she said. He pulled the bell-cord violently. 


Phia ran to answer the bell. 

"Take this child up to her bed-room, and stay 
with her until she goes to sleep," he said, placing 
the little girl in the strong arms of the colored 

"Oh, uncle, don t go back to that room ! Don t, 
or if you do, take me with you !" pleaded the child, 
caressing his cheek with her hand. 

"Go, my dear, go to bed. Pandemonium is no 
place for babies. Leave me to deal with that de 
moniac," he answered, grimly, as he turned away. 

"Oh, uncle, don t mind her ! She don t know what 
she says!" pleaded the child, stretching out her 
hands imploringly towards him. 

But he had re-entered the room and clapped the 
door to behind him. 

Gloria slid from the woman s arms, sat down on 
the lowest step of the stairs and burst into tears. 

"Come to bed, honey. Don t sit there crying. You 
can t do no good by dat. You can t vent de debbil 
from habbin his own way dis night," said Phia. 

"Oh, I know I know I know!" sobbed the 

"Well, den, come along up to bed, and I ll stay 
long ob you for company." 

"Oh, I can t I can t I can t I m so fraid. Let 
me sit here and wait " 

"Wait for what?" 

"Oh, till uncle comes out, or one of them does. 
Oh, I couldn t go to bed ! I couldn t go to sleep and 
leave them so! Hush!" suddenly exclaimed the 
child, breaking off in her talk, and bending forward 
her head and straining her sense in fearful atten 
tion, as she heard her uncle s voice in low, tense, bit- 


ter tones, and then her aunt s hissing tongue in 

The child clasped her hands in a piteous, helpless 
agony of prayer. 

"Come, come, honey, come up to bed, and I will 
sit by you and tell you pretty stories about foxes 
and hares, and dwarfs and giants, and little pigs 
and things, like I used to do," said Phia. 

"Hush!" exclaimed the child, starting forward, 
with staring eyes, as the voices in the closed room 
sunk lower and became more bitter, intense and 

"Come, come, honey, you must come to bed. 
Tain t right to be listening, nohow !" expostulated 
Sophia, in virtuous indignation. 

"Oh ! I know it is not ! I know it is not ! And I 
can t hear a word they say. I only want to know 

want to know Oh! I m so afraid! I m so 

afraid, Phia!" gasped the child, shuddering from 
head to foot. 

" Fraid o what?" 

"Oh! fraid of something happening!" panted the 
little girl. 

"You can t help of what happens, so what s the 
use o bein afeard?" 

At that moment the voices in the closed room 
arose, both speaking together in violent, clashing 

"Oh, Phia ! Let s go in ! Let s go in and stand 
between them !" pleaded the child, springing up. 

"Who? me? No, I thank you, honey! I m 
spunky enough, but I ain t gwine to part a wolf 
from a wildcat, dere !" 

"Then I will ! I will !" cried the brave child, run 
ning and flinging herself against the closed door; 


but it was locked fast, and resisted all her efforts, 
while the angry voices within clashed together in 

Suddenly one voice arose above the other, with 
the roar of an infuriated wild beast. It was her 
uncle s voice. It cried: 

"DIE, then ! and end it all !" 

There was a heavy fall and groan. 

With a shriek of horror Gloria arose and fled to 
the negro woman and buried her face in her bosom. 

The next instant the door was suddenly unlocked 
and thrown open, and Marcellus de Crespigney 
his face haggard, his eyes starting, his hair bris 
tling ran out, tore open the hall door and rushed 
from the house out into the winter night. 

"I must go see what s happened," hastily mut 
tered the black woman, in a voice full of awe. as 
she put the child off her knee and went toward the 

Gloria, tottering, moaning, sobbing piteously, 

The long room was silent and almost dark, for 
the candles had not been called for, and there was 
no light except from the smouldering logs of the 
fire in the open chimney. 

Fallen on a rug before this fire, lay a white form. 

Sophia stooped to look at it, and instantly 
started up in horror, crying out : 

"Lord have mercy upon us! He has killed her! 
Marster has murdered inist ess!" 


There in a little pool of her own blood, lay the 
small, white face of Eusebie, with its eyes wide 
open and glazed. 

She was quite dead. 




And well we know your tenderness of heart 
And gentle, deep, compassionate remorse. 


FILLED with horror, that subdued all outward 
show of emotion, the old black woman lifted the 
light form of her mistress and bore it across the 
room to the lounge. 

Overcome with grief and terror, the child fol 
lowed her, shaking as with a hard ague fit. 

Phia laid the fast-stiffening body down on the 
couch and straightened the limbs, and drew the 
white dress down to the small, rigid feet. 

Little Gloria stood by, clasping the woman s 
skirts, and crying and sobbing as if her heart would 

When Phia had decently composed the small 
body, she went to the bell and rang it sharply, then 
she turned the key of the door and came back to 
her post. 

She gazed for a moment on the poor, dead face, 
and then tenderly closed the eyes, keeping her 
fingers and thumb lightly pressed on the white lids. 

Some one came running swiftly along the pas 
sage outside, tried the lock, and then rapped. 

Phia went and unlocked the door, holding it a 
few inches apart, to prevent the entrance of the 

There were but three servants in that reduced es- 


tablishment Phia, her husband Laban, and her 
daughter Lamia, 

It was the latter who had come to answer the bell. 

"What does yer want, mammy ?" inquired the 
girl, seeing that her mother barred her farther 

"You tell your daddy to run here right off. No 
nonsense, now; not to lay a minute, but to run 
here right off ! Yer hear me, don t yer?" 

"Yes, mammy; but daddy done gone way in de 
boat to Sinnigger s." 

"Whey?" sharply demanded the woman. 

"To Sinnigger s, mammy." 

"What he done gone dere for, when he wanted so 
bad here?" 

"Marster done sent him dere arter de doctor. 
Marster come a-rabin out to de quarter, just now, 
like he gone rip stabin mad, an say how mist ess 
wer took berry ill, an he hauled off daddy down 
to de landin to start him off to Sinnigger s arter de 
doctor. Is mist ess dat bad, sure nough?" 

"Hum! Sent arter de doctor, eh? No use send 
arter de doctor now. Set a house afire, an den 
run for a gourd o water to put it out ! Hum ! Dat 
a blind!" muttered Phia. 

"Is mist ess so berry bad?" inquired the girl. 

"So yer daddy s gone to Sinnigger s. Whey s 
yer marster?" 

"Marster done gone down to de boat landin to 
hurry daddy off, I telled you before, mammy. But, 
say, is mist ess bad as all dat conies to?" inquired 
the girl for the third time. 

"It ain t none o your business! You go right 
straight down de kitchen and put on a kettle ob 


water to heat," replied the woman, closing the door 
on her daughter. 

"Sent for de doctor ! Hum. Dat piece ob cep- 
tion ain t a-gwine to do no good. Lord, Lord, did 
I ebber expect to lib to see dis awful day? Dough 
I hab offen an offen prophesied as how murder 
would be done in dis forsak, unlawful house, did 
I ebber expect as it would come to pass? He s done 
it, an 7 he ll sure to be hung, an den what is to come 
ob de place? O-o-m-me," groaned the woman, as 
she returned to her post of duty. 

At these dreadful words, the voice of the child, 
that had sunk into low sobs, now arose in wails of 

The next moment the door was thrown open and 
Marcellus de Crespigney hurried into the room, 
haggard, ghastly, with distended eyeballs and dis 
heveled hair. After rapidly glancing around the 
room, his eyes fell upon the form lying on the 
lounge, and he hurried up to it, breathing hard, as 
he put the questions: 

"How is she? How is she? Better?" 

The appalled woman silently moved aside and 
the child crouched down upon the floor and made 
room for him. 

He stooped anxiously over the rigid form, looked 
deeply into the marble face and uttered a cry which 
those that heard never forgot in all their after life. 

Then dashing his hand violently against his fore 
head, he flung himself down by the couch, and 
dropped his head upon the cold breast of his wife, 
wailing forth : 

"Dead! Dead! Dead! And I have killed her! 
I, a murderer, most accursed !" 

He was totally unconscious of the sobbing child 


at his feet, or the frowning woman who stood with 
folded arms, like a black Nemesis, at his back. He 
had eyes for neither for nothing but the lifeless 
form before him. 

Gazing on her, pressing his lips to her cold brow, 
again and again, he broke into the most violent 
lamentations, the most awful self-accusations. 

Then hiding his head in the folds of her raiment, 
he groaned aloud and seemed to swoon into silence. 

Again, with an accession of frenzy, he started up 
and began striding to and fro, from end to end of 
the long room, uttering the most agonized self-re 
proaches, and calling down the most horrible male 
dictions upon his own head. 

This terrible scene went on until at last the weep 
ing child, her heart half broken with grief for her 
who was beyond suffering, and for him who still 
suffered, arose from her crouching position and 
dried her tears and tried to still her sobs, and went 
to the maddened man, as he raged up and down 
the floor, invoking imprecations on his own head. 

She came behind him, pleading in her pitiful 

"Oh, uncle, do not curse yourself ! Pray ! The 
Lord is merciful I" And she put her little hand out 
to touch his. 

Then he whirled around upon her like a furious 
wind, his eyes flashing lightnings of frenzy, his 
voice thundering: 

"Avaunt ! Begone ! Let no innocent thing come 
near me!" 

The child turned and fled and buried her face in 
the lap of Sophia, who was now seated by the dead 
body of her mistress. 


"Let me take you to bed, little Glo ," whispered 
the woman. 

"No no," sobbed the aggrieved and terrified 
child. "No no. I want to stay near him! I I 
want to stay near him!" 

Three dreadful hours passed in this way, with 
little change. 

Sophia sat near the head of the lounge, keeping 
constant watch over the corpse. 

Little Gloria crouched on the floor at her feet, 
with her head hidden in the old woman s lap. 

Marcellus de Crespigney raged up and down the 
floor, breathing maledictions upon himself, or he 
dropped down before the dead body of his wife, 
uttering awful groans or lapsing into more awful 

An hour after midnight there came a sound of 
footsteps, crunching through the frozen snow, and 
followed by an alarm on the iron knocker at the 
front door, which announced the arrival of Dr. 
Prout, the physician of St. Inigoes. 

De Crespigney, almost exhausted by the long con 
tinued violence of his emotions, was now calm with 
the calmness of prostration and despair. 

"Nothing serious the matter, I hope!" said the 
cordial voice of the doctor, as he entered the room, 
ushered by Laban, and met by Colonel de Crespi 
gney, who advanced to receive him. 

The physician of St. Inigoes was a short, stout, 
round-bodied little old man, with a bald head, a 
smooth face, cheery voice and manner, He was al 
ways dressed in speckless black from head to foot. 

"Nothing serious, I hope? Only one of madame s 
usual nervous attacks, eh?" he cheerfully de- 


manded, as he shook hands with the master of the 

"It is her last attack, sir. She is dead," answered 
De Crespigney, in steady tones. 

"Dead? Lord bless my soul, I am I dead, do 
you say?" exclaimed the doctor, in surprise and 

"Yes, sir, she is gone. Come and see." 

"Lord bless my soul, I am very much shocked !" 
exclaimed the good little man, as he followed the 
bereaved husband to the lounge on which the body 
of the ill-fated wife lay. 

Old Thia lifted the white handkerchief that cov 
ered the white face, arfd then withdrew to give way 
to her master and the doctor, leading the trembling 
child away with her. 

"How did this happen ?" solemnly inquired the 
doctor, as he gazed down on the waxen face, with 
the stream of scarlet blood curdled from the corner 
of the mouth down upon the chin and throat, where 
it lay in a thick cake. 

"Through me. I killed her," answered De Cres 
pigney, in the same dread monotone in which all his 
answers to the doctor s questions had been made. 

Dr. Prout turned and gazed at him in amazement 
for a moment, and then said gravely and kindly : 

"My dear friend, this shock has been too much 
for you. Compose yourself. This unhappy lady 
has had a fatal hemorrhage of the lungs, such as I 
feared for a long time past; such as I warned you 
might be the result of any unusual excitement." 

"Just so, you warned me, yet I killed her." 

The doctor looked at him in a great trouble, then 
replaced the handkerchief over the quiet face of the 


dead, and taking his arm led him to a distant sofa, 
placed him on it, took the seat beside him, and said : 

"De Crespigney, you must not say such false 
things about yourself. Think what the effect upon 
other minds may be." 

"They are not false; they are true. Listen to me, 
Dr. Prout. You know you warned me that excite 
ment might prove fatal to my unhappy wife." 


"You know how prone she was to excitement. 
You knew her delicate health and her extreme ner 
vous irritability?" 

"I knew the weakness of her lungs and the vio 
lence of her temper. I knew all that, Colonel de 
Crespigney, before you ever saw her face." 

"Let that pass," said Marcel, waving his hand 
impatiently. "You warned me against the danger 
of excitement for her. I was not man enough to 
heed your warning in her behalf. I have been 
frenzied to-night, Dr. Prout. But attend! This 
evening I irritated her, excited, taunted, maddened, 
murdered her!" 

"Oh, my dear Colonel. Oh, tut, tut, tut!" 

"But hear me! I must tell some one. Oh, this 
necessity of confession this afternoon a dispute 
arose between us, indeed I know not how I should 
have calmed, soothed, conciliated her, knowing how 
dangerous was excitement to that poor, fragile 
being! But I did not. When she accused me, I 
recriminated; when she reproached me, I retorted. 
One word brought on another/ as the people say. 
She grew frantic and knew not what she said, I do 
verily believe. Yet her words stung me to frenzy, 
and, forgetting my manhood, I I " 

Here Marcel de Crespigney s voice broke, and he 


covered his brow with his hand and dropped his 
head upon his breast with a look of unutterable 

"You never could have raised your hand against 
your wife, De Crespigney?" exclaimed the doctor, 
in a harsh voice, and shrinking away from his com 

Up went the fine head, and wide open with as 
tonishment at such a question the splendid eyes, as 
Marcel replied: 

"Who I? I raise my hand against that poor 
little, fragile being? I raise my hand against any 
woman? I may be a devil, Dr. Prout, but I am not 
a what would you call a man who would strike 
a woman anyway? I am sure I don t know." 

"Pardon me the base thought, De Crespigney. It 
was but a passing thought Scarcely that indeed. 
But what do you mean, then, by your self-accusa 
tions, my poor friend?" 

"I killed her all the same. If I did not strike 
with my hand, I struck with the poisoned arrow 
of the tongue. Is any serpent s sting so venomous 
as the tongue? Her tongue had stung me to frenzy. 
She accused me, poor, wrong-headed child that she 
was, she accused me of marrying her for money, for 
this miserable, sterile promontory, with its ruinous 
house and worthless land. I retorted by telling her 
I married her for pity. Yes!" cried Marcel, sud 
denly starting up, and striding to and fro with ris 
ing excitement, "yes, villain! caitiff! cur that I 
was, I told my wife I told that delicate and sen 
sitive creature that I had married her only for pity ! 
And worse, far worse than that, I saw her pale face 
grow scarlet at my cruel, shameful words, then, 
white as death, as she sank upon a chair and placed 


her hand upon her chest. I did not care. The devil 
had possession of me. 

" You will kill me, she gasped. 

" DiE, then, and end it all ! I answered, brutally, 
for I half suspected she was acting all this illness. 
But the next instant she fell heavily forward, with 
the blood welling from her throat." 

"Gracious Heaven !" murmured the doctor in a 
low tone. 

"I remembered what you had warned me to do in 
case of such an emergency. I went and laid her 
down on the rugs quietly, and then ran out and dis 
patched a servant for you. In ten minutes I was 
back again at her side, but she was gone." 

"I came the very moment that I was summoned, 
but the way was long," said the doctor. 

"You could have done no good, as it turned out, 
even if you had been in the house. The fault was 
mine. I killed her ! I killed the poor little fragile 
woman, whose only fault was to love me too well, 
too jealously, too exactingly, too insanely!" ex 
claimed De Crespigney, heaping up words as men 
will do under any strong excitement. "Yes, I killed 
my delicate, sensitive wife ! I killed her with cruel, 
shameful, unmanly words. Oh, accursed VILLAIN !" 
he cried, smiting his forehead with a violent blow, 
as he strode up and down the room. 

Dr. Prout went up to him, took his arm and drew 
it within his own, and saying, with the authority of 
a keeper over a madman : 

"Come, De Crespigney, you must go with me. I 
am going to take you off to bed and give you an 
opiate. You, Laban, there! Lead the way to your 
master s chamber." 

Marcel, whose stormy fits of 0:110 lion had reduced 


him to the weakness of infancy, submitted himself 
to be led from the room, preceded by his servant, 

Then there was left in the apartment of death, 
with the corpse, the old watcher, Sophia, and the 
child, Gloria, who had sobbed herself to sleep with 
her head on the black woman s lap. 

A few minutes after the doctor had led De Cres- 
pigney away, however, Lamia softly entered the 
room and whispered: 

"The hot water is ready, mammy." 

"Yes. Well, now take this child and carry her 
up to her room, and undress her without waking 
her, if possible, and put her to bed. But if she 
do wake, you stay with her till she goes to sleep 
again, an then you come down here an help me. 
You know what s happened of by dis time, don t 

"Oh, yes; mist ess hab broken a blood-vessel, an 
deed " 

"Yes ! Lord forgive me ! I did fink by de way he 
ran on, as marster had done it hisself ! I thanks 
my Lord it wasn t him, and dere ll be no erow- 
ner s quest, nor hanging! Dere, gal, take de poor 
dear chile and carry her to bed. Well, poor 
mist ess, I hopes de Lord will hab messy on her 
soul ! Anyways, dere won t be no more quarrellin 
an fightin an fendin an provin an spoundin 
an splainin in de house to drive a body ravin , 
stracted mad. Marse ain t clined to quarrel much 
hisself, an if he was, he couldn t quarrel by his 
self dout some one else to help him," growled old 
Phia, as she lifted the child and laid her, still sleep 
ing, in the arms of Lamia. 

The girl took the exhausted child up to her room, 


undressed, and put her into bed without awakening 

Once, indeed, the poor little creature half waked 
as she was finally laid on her pillow; but she only 
sobbed and swooned away to sleep. 

Lamia stood by the bed watching her for a few 
minutes, and seeing that she was not likely to wake 
for hours to come, left the chamber and went down 
stairs to join her "mammy" in the room of death. 

Together they washed and dressed the dead, and 
laid it out neatly on the long table to await the 
undertaker. Then Phia lighted a couple of wax 
candles and placed one at the head and one at the 

Lastly, the two set the room in perfect order, re 
plenished the fire, and finally took up their posi 
tions, sitting one on the right, and the other on the 
left of the body, to watch until daylight. 

Dr. Prout remained all night with his sorrowing 
friend, and then, after an early breakfast the next 
morning, departed to make, at the request of 
Colonel de Crespigney, the necessary arrangements 
for the funeral. 

When Marcel de Crespigney re-entered the room 
of death he found it filled with an atmosphere of 
repose that calmed even his perturbed spirit. He 
went to the table and turned down the white linen 
cover, and saw the face of the dead soothed into a 
peaceful beauty such as it had never known in life. 
He gazed on it for some minutes, and then stooped 
and pressed his lips to the cold, quiet brow with 
more tenderness than he had ever kissed the living 
woman. Then he reverently covered the face again, 
and stole silently from the room. 

Little Gloria slept the deep sleep of mental and 


physical prostration. She did not wake until noon. 
Then she awoke to memory, and to an agony of grief 
that refused to be comforted. 

"And not a lady about de house to look arter de 
poor chile! Not eben a white oman anywhere in 
reach. An me an Lamia dat oberloaded with work, 
along ob dis dreadful business!" groaned Phia, as 
she trotted from chamber to parlor, and from parlor 
to kitchen on her multifarious duties. 

Even in the midst of her lamentations she met 
relief. In the kitchen she found David Lindsay and 
his grandmother, just arrived, and waiting to see if 
they could be of any use. 

David, on coming to work that morning, had met 
Dr. Prout and had anxiously inquired if any one 
was sick at the "house," and in answer had received 
the news of Madame de Crespigney s death. 

Then remembering the limited resources of ser 
vice in that small and isolated household, David, 
with the thoughtfulness of a boy who had long had 
a man s responsibilities on his own young shoulders, 
re-entered his boat and rowed rapidly across to the 
little sandy isle, to tell his grandmother, and even 
to suggest her returning with him. 

The gentle old dame saw even more clearly than 
her grandson had done, the need they had of her 
at Promontory Hall. So she lost no time in get 
ting ready to go, and in less than half an hour from 
the moment when she received the news, she stood 
in Sophia s kitchen, earnestly offering her services. 

"If you ll only look after de chile, which I b lieve 
you is a great favorite long o her, dat is all as I 
shall ax ob you," said Phia. 

And so the sweet old dame "looked after" little 
Gloria, and comforted her, night and day, during 


the three days that preparations for the funeral 
went on. 

Meanwhile, David Lindsay made himself useful 
in many ways at the Hall during the day, and at 
night returned to the little isle to take care of the 
house in the absence of its mistress. 

Often Gloria tried to see and console her stricken 
uncle ; but he always refused to have her, saying : 

"Let all innocent beings keep aloof from me." 

Thus, in alternations between the frenzy of re 
morse and the stupor of despair, Marcel de Oes- 
pigney passed the interval between the death and 
burial of his "murdered wife," as, in his morbid 
self-reproach, he called her. 

"Words kill !" he answered to the expostulations 
of his friend, the doctor. "Words kill, and I killed 
her with cruel words! The last words I spoke to 
her the last words her failing senses heard from 
me were cruel, murderous words! They killed 
her! What though no law can drag me before an 
earthly tribunal to answer for her life? Before 
the awful judgment seat of the God in my own soul, 
I stand a self-convicted murderer!" 

The good doctor shrugged his shoulders, reflect 
ing that it was of no use to argue with a man whose 
morbid sensibility made him, for the time being, 
a monomaniac. 

Marcel de Crespigney, who had so greatly dis 
tinguished himself for martial courage and ability 
during the Mexican war, was weaker than a child 
where his sympathies were involved. 

This weakness had betrayed him into all the 
misery of his life. It had drawn him, in his early 
youth, into a marriage with a plain, sickly, faded 
.woman, who loved him with that morbid, exclusive, 


absorbing passion that, disappointed, sometimes 
sends its victim to the madhouse or the grave. 

He had married her let the truth be here told 
from the promptings of compassion alone. He had 
given her all that he had to give sympathy, ten 
derness, service. But this was not love not the 
love she craved and missed. Hence came humilia 
tion, morbid brooding, and the monomania that 
turned all his kindly acts and motives into outrage 
and offence. 

Had children blessed their union, and so divided 
her thoughts and affections, or had they the hus 
band and wife though childless, lived in a city, 
where society must have claimed some of her at 
tention, and taught her something of life, she might 
have been much healthier in mind and body, and 
their marriage might have been happier. 

But in the drear solitude of Promontory Hall, 
with no children to fondle, no society but that of 
the studious, intellectual man whom she vainly and 
madly loved, there could have been but one of two 
results for her madness or death. The most mer 
ciful of the two was hers. 

But it was also impossible that De Crespigney s 
mind, under all these circumstances, should have 
retained its healthy tone, or that his long patience 
should not have at last become exhausted, so that 
in one moment of unexampled exasperation he lost 
the self control of years and told her the truth 
the truth, not "in love," but in wrath and scorn, 
that had slain her. 

Now he would not seek to palliate his fault or 
justify himself. He would not remember the 
jealousy, the violence, the acrimony with which she 
had driven him to frenzy ; he would only remember 


her strong love for him and his secret indifference 
to her, and his deeply sympathetic, compassionate 
and conscientious spirit suffered pangs of remorse 
that would seem to others morbid, excessive and 

On the fifth day following the catastrophe, the 
remains of Eusebie de Crespigney were placed in an 
elegant rosewood casket and conveyed by boat to 
the little Gothic chapel on La Compte s Landing, 
where they were met by a small number of old 
friends and neighbors, and where, after the re 
ligious services were over, they were consigned to 
the family vault under the chancel. 

Immediately after the funeral, Marcel de Cres 
pigney utterly broke down and fell ill of a brain 

Dr. Prout, taking authority on himself in the 
household anarchy, installed Mrs. Lindsay as nurse, 
and wrote to his family. 



She is active, stirring, all fire, 
Cannot rest, cannot tire. 


WITHIN ten days after the despatch of the doc 
tor s letter it was answered in person by the 
colonel s maiden aunt, who, after many misadven 
tures, reached Promontory Hall in the afternoon of 
a very bitter cold January day. 

Miss Agrippina de Crespigney, called by her 


familiars Miss Grip, was a slight, wiry little 
woman, with a dark skin, sharp nose and chin, 
small, keen, brilliant black eyes, tightly curled, 
bright black hair, and a trim figure, clothed in a 
close black cashmere gown, with stiff white linen 
collar and cuffs a tough little body she was, whose 
sixty years of life s hard buffeting had not seemed 
to have saddened, weakened or in any other way 
aged, but rather matured, hardened and strength 

For now, in the very depth of one of the hardest 
winters that ever was known here, she had under 
taken an arduous journey of more than twelve hun 
dred miles, from the green savannahs of the 
"Sunny South" to the frozen regions of the icy 
North, traveling without rest, both day and night, 
by railroads, stage-coaches, and tavern hacks, and 
at length arrived at her destination, none the worse 
for her performance, without showing the slightest 
sign of suffering from cold or from fatigue. 

The last half -day of her hard week s journey had 
been peculiarly trying. She had reached St. Inigoes 
by stage-coach, early in the morning. After a hasty 
breakfast she had started in the springless carryall 
belonging to the inn, for the Promontory. When 
she reached the shore she had to wait hours there 
for the tide to ebb before she could cross over the 
neck of land that connected the island cape to the 

Even then the passage was difficult and danger 
ous from the piled up blocks of ice that lay across 
the road. 

"I really thought that I was coming to a habit 
able part of the globe, at least; but this is Nova 
Zembla! Just Nova Zembla and nothing else! A 


waste fragment of a continent, flung out as useless 
into an arctic sea !" said Miss Grip, as the old car 
riage pitched and tumbled along the narrow ice-en 
cumbered isthmus towards the snow-clad promon 

"I hab lieern it called a many hard names. Miss, 
but I nebber heered it called Dissemblance afore," 
replied the negro driver. 

"Well, then, hold your tongue and mind your 
horses, or you ll upset me," rather irrelevantly con 
cluded Miss Grip. 

When the rickety carryall drew up before the 
old iron gate in the old stone wall that enclosed the 
stern-looking gray-stone house, Miss Grip gave 
voice once more. 

"Is it a police-station, or a penitentiary, or a 
warehouse, or a fort, or something of the sort? 
This never was meant for a gentleman s private 

But she did not even wait to cross the threshold 
before she seized the reins of government. As soon 
as she alighted from the carryall she began to issue 
her orders to the driver. 

"Take the carriage around to the stables of 
course there are stables and you must find them 
put up the carriage, feed and water the horses, then 
come around to the kitchen. You must get your 
supper before you go back. Stop! take my trunk 
oft first and bring it up into the house." 

The driver began to obey these orders as the brisk 
little woman ran up the steps and sounded an alarm 
on the iron knocker. 

Laban opened the door, and the driver carried in 
the trunk and put it down on the hall floor and de 
parted about his other business. 


"How is your master?" sharply demanded Miss 
Grip of the astonished negro. 

"Jes de same," replied the man, as if the answer 
had been rapped out of him. 

"How the same?" 


Miss Grip immediately took off her bonnet and 
shawl, and flung them on the hat-rack, saying : 

"Show me the way up through this old jail to the 
den where your master lies." 

The man looked daggers at the insolent little 
woman, but he obeyed her, and led the way to the 
spacious upper chamber where the patient lay, 
watched by old Mrs. Lindsay and patient little Glo . 

Miss Agrippina nodded silently to the nurse, then 
kissed the child and sent her out of the room, say 
ing that a sick room was no wholesome place for a 
little girl. 

Now that Miss De Crespigney had come to take 
her proper place at the bedside of her suffering 
nephew, good Mrs. Lindsay found herself at liberty 
to return home and look after her own little affairs. 

The child wept at parting with her old friend, 
and said : 

"I know there is no work to do at the landing 
while all this snow and ice is piled up everywhere; 
but, oh, do please to send David Lindsay to see me 
sometimes. I shall be so lonesome when you are 

The gentle old dame promised to do so, and went 
away to look for Laban to row her over to the little 

This though a very short, was not always a very 
safe trip, at this season of the year, when floating 
blocks of ice endangered the little boat, and it was 


only by watchfulness and skill that it was ever ac 
complished safely. 

From that hour Miss Grip administered the gov 
ernment of Promontory Hall. 

She was an accomplished nurse and housekeeper, 
and not at all an unkindly woman, notwithstanding 
her quick ways. She held a consultation with the 
doctor on his next visit, and learned from him the 
facts of the case, of which she would not inquire of 
the servants or even permit them to speak. 

"It was the most unhappy marriage I ever heard 
of. But then I always knew Marcel would make a 
mess of it," was her only comment on the story. 

Then she devoted herself to her sick nephew, who, 
in his delirium, was always holding imaginary con 
versations with his lost wife, and sealing a recon 
ciliation, such as in the past had always followed 
one of their quarrels. 

Even Miss Grip would sometimes smile and some 
times weep to hear him say : 

"I know it, my dear. I knew you did not mean 
all that you said. I knew you were excited. Yes, I 
know, for all that, you love me, Eusebie. There, 
say no more about it, dear. Let us try to forget 
it, 7 and so forth, for hours, until exhaustion and 
stupor would follow. 

It was a long illness. The February thaw had 
come and melted the "iceberg," as Miss Grip called 
the snow-clad promontory, before Marcel de Cres- 
pigney passed the crisis of his fever, and then he 
was so weak in mind as well as body that another 
month passed away before he had gradually recov 
ered strength enough to sit up in his easy-chair and 
converse a little. 

Next, when he was able to bear a sustained dis- 


course, he gave Miss Grip his own version of the 
fatal quarrel that had precipitated the catastrophe, 
not sparing himself in the least, but heaping bitter 
reproaches upon his own head, as he had done from 
the first. 

"Yet," said Miss Agrippina, "I cannot see that 
you were so much to blame. But, in any case, it is 
of no use to look back. All that you can do now is 
to atone in the future for what you have done amiss 
in the past. She has left you no child of her own ; 
but she has left a little niece whom she loved. Be a 
good father to that orphan." 

"I will do so," answered De Crespigney, very 

"And now, Marcel, take my advice: Whatever 
else you do, don t make a fool of yourself again by 
getting married. Such a bookworm as you has no 
business with a wife. So, don t be a foci." 

"I will not," sighed the colonel, obediently. 

When he grew stronger still he sent for the little 
portable cabinet in which his lost wife was accus 
tomed to keep her papers, and he had it placed upon 
a stand between his easy-chair and the open wood 
fire, and he went through her letters, with the in 
tention of burning all of them, lest they should by 
unforeseen accident fall into other hands. 

And here he found what newly awoke his grief 
and his remorse. It was her last will, duly drawn 
up, signed, sealed, and witnessed, in which she be 
queathed to him the whole of her real and personal 
estate. Folded in with this document was a letter, 
dated some time back, and addressed to her hus 
band, to be opened after her death. It seemed to 
have been written just after one of their fierce quar 
rels and sorrowful reconciliations. In it she wrote : 


"I feel that some day I shall die suddenly in some 
one of my mad fits of excitement. I feel that when 
that shall have happened without time for recon 
ciliation, I shall want to speak to you from the 
other life. I shall want to reach my hand across 
the great gulf that will divide us and be reconciled 
to you from the other life. But that may not be my 
privilege, so I write to you now, and leave w r ith 
you, for that time, what I feel that I shall want to 
say to you then." 

And here followed a most pathetic plea for a 
charitable construction of her confessed infirmities 
of temper and a prayer for the merciful remem 
brance of her love. She said not one word about 
the will she had made securing all her property to 
him ; she was silent on that subject, as if she thought 
it of little importance compared to the theme upon 
which she wrote, her own morbid, maddened af 

The letter so agitated the convalescent that he 
suffered a relapse of several days duration. 

As the spring advanced, however, he improved in 
health, strength and spirits. The season was early 
that year, so that by the middle of March every 
vestige of ice and snow had disappeared, and by the 
first of April the fields were green with grass and 
the trees blossoming for fruit. And then Marcel de 
Crespigney was able to sit out on the front porch 
and enjoy the resurrection of nature with a new 
sense of life. 

Meanwhile the business on the fishing landing 
was opening briskly, and, among other workmen, 
David Lindsay found a plenty to do, patching boats 
and mending nets and clearing beaches. 


Again little Gloria went daily down to the old 
sea wall and sat and read to her playmate while he 
mended old seines or netted new ones. She read to 
him the school histories of Rome, Greece and Eng 
land, while the hungry mind of the boy swallowed 
and assimilated them all. 

Under the shadow of the old sea wall the life of 
the children was an idyl in Arcadie until one un 
happy day, when their innocent affection fell under 
the notice of Miss Agrippina de Crespigney, and 
shocked that lady s sense of propriety in the most 
outrageous manner. 

She was giving the poor old manor-house a fit of 
the severest hydrophobic convulsions, which she 
called a spring cleaning, turning every trunk, box, 
wardrobe, closet and store-room inside out, and 
raising dust that had rested undisturbed for ages, 
when, thinking that she needed more help, she de 
termined to walk down to the landing, where, she 
was told, the fisher-boy was at work, and to send 
him to fetch his grandmother to her assistance. 
When she reached the old sea wall and stood in the 
breach, this is what she saw before her : 

A little fire kindled on the sands, and some fresh 
fish laid on the coals to broil ; a little napkin spread 
on a flat stone, with two litttle blue-edged plates 
and green-feandled knives and forks, a bunch of 
radishes, a bunch of onions, and two rolls of wheat 
bread, and lastly, the two children sitting, side by 
side, in the old boat, reading from the same book. 

Miss Agrippina raised up both her hands in 
speechless amazement. Then controlling herself, 
she forbore all reproaches to the little, unconscious 
offender, and only saying : "Gloria, my love, your 


uncle wants you. Go right home," came calmly 
down to the scene. 

Quite innocent of any impropriety, the little girl 
rose obediently, and saying : 

"I am sorry, David Lindsay, that I cannot stay 
and take dinner with you to-day; but poor uncle, 
you know! I must go to him directly; you must 
take the book along with you and read it at home 
to-night," she ran lightly along, tripped over the 
broken wall, and home. 

Miss Agrippina turned to dispatch the boy on 
his errand after his grandmother. 

David promptly left his culinary preparations, 
unmoored his boat, and rowed rapidly for the isle. 

And so the children s little, innocent al fresco 
feast was spoiled; but that was nothing to what 
happened afterwards. 



All she did was but to wear out the day ; 

Full oftentimes she leave of him did take; 
And oft again devised somewhat to say, 

Which she forgot, whereby excuse to make; 

So loth was she his company to forsake. 


breach of the old stone sea-wall, watching David 
Lindsay as he rowed rapidly from the shore. 

"This intimacy must be stopped at once," she 


said; "that poor, neglected child must be looked 
after and not allowed to associate with every rude 
boor that she may happen to meet on this dreary 
promontory! She must be sent to school. I will 
speak to Colonel de Crespigney on the subject at 

So muttering, Miss Grip turned, clambered down 
from her standpoint and walked rapidly towards 
the house. 

When she got there she found little Glo standing 
between her uncle s knees, as he reclined in his 
chip-bottomed arm-chair in the front porch. 

"Why, how is this, Aunt Agrippina? This child 
says you told her I sent for her. It was surely a 
mistake. I never sent for her," said Colonel de 
Crespigney, as soon as he saw Miss Grip. 

"No one said you did. I told her you wanted her, 
and so you do want her, or at least you ought to," 
grimly replied the lady. 

"Why, what on earth do you mean. Miss de Cres 

"You know very well what I mean, or you should 
know," severely retorted Miss Grip. 

"Upon my sacred word of honor, I don t! Pray 
explain yourself," entreated the colonel. 

Instead of replying to him, Miss Agrippina de 
liberately divested herself of her bonnet and shawl 
and gave them to the child, saying : 

"Here, my dear, take these up into my room and 
put them away carefully." 

"Now, then, what do you mean?" demanded the 
colonel, when the little girl had disappeared into 
the house. 

"I mean that you want your ward to stay at home 


until she goes to school, which she must do very 
soon," said Miss Grip, decidedly. 

"Go to school? How can she? There is no school 
fit for her within fifty miles of this place." 

"Certainly not. She must be sent away to a first- 
class boarding-school." 

"I cannot consent to that, Aunt Agrippina. I can 
not, and will not. I cannot part with her. Besides, 
it would break her heart to send her away." 

"Fiddle!" said Miss Grip. 

"Yet I see that she should have instruction. I 
will advertise for a first-class resident governess." 

"You will not do any such thing. Colonel Mar- 
cellus de Crespigney ! A resident governess in the 
house, indeed! Why, she would marry you in six 

"Absurd !" indignantly exclaimed the colonel. 

"Oh, yes, you may call it absurd, if you like! 
But I know you, Marcellus! Any needy woman, 
any single woman, I mean, young or old, plain or 
pretty, shut up in the same house with you, would 
marry you out of hand !" 

"You must think me a very weak man," said the 

"I do," said Miss Grip. 

"Thank you," said De Crespigney, with an air of 

"Weak where your sympathies are concerned, 
Marcel, and that is no discredit to you, my dear 
But I ll not have any wandering woman making her 
market at your expense ! No, sir ! no resident gov 
erness, if you please !" 

"I hope, Aunt Agrippina, you will permit me to 
be master of my own house, so far as to say who 
shall or shall not make a part of my family." 


"Oh, by all means, and take the consequences, too, 
for if you engage a resident governess, I shall leave 
the house. And after I go what respectable woman, 
do you suppose, would come and live here with a 
young widower, and no lady of his family to keep 
her in countenance? Ah, ha ! I have you there, Mar 
cel ! Yes, and I mean to keep you there !" 

"It is rather unkind of you, Aunt Agrippina; but 
I shall not argue the point, since I know from ex 
perience that nothing ever turned you from any 
resolution that you had formed. Still, I say, it is 
very unkind of you," said the colonel, with a 
wounded air. 

"It is for your own good, honey. If I were to stay 
here and let a resident governess come, she would 
make you the captive of her bow and spear, and 
marry you right under my very nose! It will not 
do, Marcel. The child must be sent to school." 

"But she is so young yet. Not nine years old un 
til June. You or I can direct her studies for the 
next year or two." 

"I don t see it. Besides, who is to look after her 
out of school hours? I tell you, Marcel, it is not 
only for her education that she is to be sent from 

"For what other reason, I pray you?" 

"To keep her out of bad company." 

" Bad company? 7 Bad company, in this remote, 
isolated place?" exclaimed the colonel, gazing at 
the lady in surprise. 

"Yes! bad company, I say! the very worst com 
pany ! I think it is a shame, a burning and a crying 
shame," exclaimed Miss Grip, firing up at the sound 
of her own words "a burning and a crying shame 
that she, Maria da Gloria de la Vera, a Countess of 


Portugal by birth, should be left here to run wild 
like any little savage, with no better companion 
than a low-born, ignorant fisher-boy! There!" 

"Lord bless my soul alive!" cried the col 
onel, sarcastically. 

"Where do you suppose I found them?" sharply 
demanded Miss Grip, whose temper was rising. 

"Found whom?" coolly inquired the colonel. 

"Your niece and ward, the Countess Maria, and 
your hired servant, David, the fisher-boy." 

"I wish you would not be ridiculous, my dear 
aunt. What good does that title do our poor little 
girl, here in democratic America? Why, even her 
father, a Portuguese nobleman by birth, but a 
staunch republican in principle, dropped his title 
when he transferred his interests to the United 
States," said Marcel. 

"Then he had no right to do it, and his act is of 
no consequence to his daughter. She is the Countess 
de la Vera, and she would be recognized as such in 
any other civilized country except in democratic 
America, as you call it. But that is not the point." 

"What is the point, then?" 

"I asked you just now, where you supposed I 
found them?" 

"In a boat, on the water?" 

"No; sitting on an old, overturned boat under the 
broken sea-wall, side by side, with an open book be 
fore them, both their hands on the covers, both 
faces bent over the same page." 

"God bless the child! She was trying to teach 
the lad !" ejaculated Marcel, with a smile of sympa 
thetic pleasure in his eyes. 

"I say it is most improper! most indecorous! 
most objectionable! for the little Countess Maria 


to be sitting down on an old boat side by side with 
a low, vulgar, ill-bred fisher-boy!" exclaimed Miss 

"Stop, stop, my dear lady ! You go too far, in 
deed ! David Lindsay is a poor fisher lad, certainly ; 
but he is not, in any sense of the words, low, vulgar, 
or ill-bred." 

"Now, how can he be anything else?" 

"By intuition. He has the intuitions of a little 

"And now, since you talk like that, I am more 
determined than ever that the child shall go to 
school," said Miss Grip. 

"It is of no earthly use for you to persist in say 
ing so, Aunt Agrippina. I cannot part with little 
Glo ? . She is the sunshine of my home the light of 
my life! Besides, she loves me so that she could 
not bear to leave me. The separation would grieve 
her to death." 

"Fiddle!" scornfully repeated Miss Grip. 

The reappearance of little Glo interrupted the 
conversation, and the subject was dropped for the 
time being. 

There is an Indian song which teaches a good 
lesson in perseverance: 

"If a man talk a very long time, 
If a man talk a very long time, 
If a man talk a very long time, 
He will bore a hole through a rock." 

And if a woman so talk, the effect is surer as well 
as swifter. 

At the very first opportunity Miss Agrippina de 


Oespigney resumed the subject of sending her 
niece to school, and she talked a "very long time. 7 

Again and again she returned to the theme, and 
longer and longer she talked. She would listen to 
no proposal of home teaching. She would come to 
no compromise whatever. She would send the lit 
tle "countess" to a first-class French and English 
Ladies 7 Academy. 

But it was not until late in the summer that 
Colonel de Crespigney, worn out with importunity 
and convinced, though against his will, by argu 
ment, reluctantly consented to the plan. 

Miss Agrippina acted promptly ori his decision, 
lest it should be repented of and withdrawn. 

"This is Friday, the lith of August," she said. 
"I will myself leave here with the child on Monday, 
the 17th. We will go to Baltimore and stop at some 
good family boarding-house. Then I will go to the 
Academy of the Sacred Heart, and make an engage 
ment to enter her on the reopening of the school 
exercises on the first of September, get a list of the 
articles required for her school uniform and outfit, 
have them purchased and made up in the interval, 
enter my little lady on the opening day, and come 
home. All this will take me about a fortnight, I 
suppose," said Miss Grip. 

And the same day she packed up a few changes 
of clothes for herself and her niece, and then com 
municated to the child that she was to go to school 
on the following Monday. 

Her words conveyed but a tithe of the truth to 
the inexperienced little girl, who forthwith went to 
her "dee-ar Marcel" for further information. 

She found him in his favorite seat the old chip- 
bottomed arm-chair, on the front porch. 


"Am I really going away from you to school, 
uncle dee-ar?" she inquired, seating herself on his 
knees and putting her arms around his neck. 

"Yes, my darling. You are a little lady, and must 
be educated, cultivated, refined, accomplished. And 
so you must go to school," replied "Marcel," laying 
her tender cheek against his hirsute face. 

"But I don t want to be all that, uncle. I want 
to stay with you always, and play with David 

Marcel caressed her tenderly, and explained 
gently the absolute necessity of her submission to 
the social law that required her to be educated. 

"Won t you be lonesome without your little Glo , 
Marcel, dee-ar!" 

"Very lonesome indeed, my child." 

"And won t you be very sorry? - she asked, 
smoothing his hair with her small hand. 

"No, not very sorry, darling. I shall be glad be 
cause it will be for your good," said De Crespigney, 
trying to look as if he meant what he said. 

"You have got Aunty Agrippina and your books 
and your music to keep you company. But David 
Lindsay! Oh, Marcel, David Lindsay!" said the 
child, as the tears filled her eyes. 

"What of him, my pet?" asked the colonel very 

"Oh, he has got nobody but me, and no music 
nor books but what I bring him. Oh, poor David 
Lindsay! What will he do?" sighed Glo>. 

"He will do very well, my dear. He will i)e busy 
with his fishing." 

"But he can t be always fishing! And he will 
have nobody to play with, or to read with, or to 
bring him books, or oh, dear! what shall we do? 


Oh, I can t go to school, Marcel! I can t! How 
can I go and leave you and David Lindsay?" broke 
forth the child, in a wail of distress. 

"I and David Lindsay must try and console each 
other, in our little lady s absence, with the thought 
that it is all for her good that she has gone. We 
shall do very well," said the colonel, more gravely 
and tenderly than he had yet spoken. 

"Oh, will you? Will you? Will you comfort 
David Lindsay? Will you lend him some books? 
Oh, he is so hungry for books, uncle dee-ar. I am 
going to give him all mine before I go away; but 
mine are only a few, and he will soon read them 
all. Will you lend him some? Will you, Marcel, 

"Yes, darling, I will indeed. I will, my precious. 
I will charge myself with the welfare of your little 
friend, and he shall not want books, nor advice, 
nor anything that he may require, if he wishes to 
cultivate his mind," said Marcel de Crespigney, who 
was absolutely without any prejudices of rank. 

"And oh! will you love David Lindsay, and let 
him love you, like I do?" 

"Like you do? What do you mean, my child?" 

"Like I love you ! Will you love him and let him 
love you, like I love you?" she pleaded, laying her 
soft cheek against his face a frequent caress of 

He kissed her for all reply. 

It was too late that Friday evening to see her 
playmate. She had been reading with him all that 
afternoon, and had taken leave of him before she 
knew that she was to go to school. Now she felt 
sure that he had gone home, and she should not 


have a chance to see him and tell him until the next 

Still, she was thinking more of her playmate than 
of any one else, simply because he had more need 
of her than any one else. So she went up to her 
little book-case and took down all her books and 
packed them in a trunk that would hold about 
twenty-five or thirty miscellaneous volumes, com 
prising nearly all of Peter Parley s and other 
juvenile works, that were held in great favor at that 
time. With these she put in two slates, a dozen 
graded copy-books, pens, pencils, india-rubber, blot 
ting-papers, inkstand, and every requisite of the 
school-desk that she could find. 

Then she locked it and called up old Laban, and 
said to him : 

"I want you to shoulder this and take it down 
to the boat-house for me." 

The old servant looked at the trunk and looked 
at the child, scratched his head, and declared: 

"I don t know what you mean, Miss Glo ." 

The little creature was not disposed to take airs 
on herself; so she kindly explained to the old man 
what she intended to do with the trunk, adding 
truthfully : 

"I told Uncle Marcel, and he did not object." 

Old Laban then shouldered the trunk and fol 
lowed his little mistress down the stairs, out of the 
front door, and so down to the end of the promon 
tory, through the breach in the old sea-wall, and 
finally to a dilapidated little boat-house, where she 
directed him to place it. 

"It will be safe there until the morning and then 
I can give it to David Lindsay, and he can carry it 
away in his boat." 


The sun had set half an hour before, and it was 
growing dark, so little Glo and her sable com 
panion hurried from the shore back to the house. 

"Saturday and Sunday! I have only got two 
days to be with Uncle Marcel and David Lindsay," 
said little Glo ? to herself when she awoke the next 

And to make the most of her time, she hurried 
out of bed, dressed herself quickly, and ran down 

Her aunt and uncle had not yet appeared, so she 
said to the cook : 

"Just give me a cup of milk and a biscuit, Phia, 
and I will eat my breakfast and go. It is my last 
day but one at home, and I must make the most 
of it." 

The old woman complied with her request, and 
the little girl quickly dispatched her meal, snatched 
her straw hat from the rack in the hall, and ran 
out of the house and down to the beach. 

She stood in the breach of the broken wall and 
looked all around for her playmate, but did not 
see him, and she thought she was going to be dis 
appointed ; but just then she heard the sound of a 
hammer, and knew it must come from one held in 
his hand, for there was no one else who worked on 
the beach. 

She ran down and found him nailing loose boards 
on the old boat-house. 

"Oh ! David Lindsay," she exclaimed, as soon as 
she saw him, "I have got something to tell you! 
What do you think it is? Oh, you would never 
guess ! I am going away on Monday !" 

"Oh! NO!" cried the boy, while a look of blank 
consternation came over his face. 


"Indeed, I am ! I don t want to go ; but they say 
I must, David Lindsay." 

"Oh! where are you going?" he asked, in a great 
trouble, that he never dreamed of trying to hide. 

"To a boarding-school in Baltimore. Oh ! I don t 
want to go, David Lindsay ! But they say I must !" 
cried the child, almost in tears again. 

The lad sighed, looked thoughtful, and then said : 

"Yes ; I know. Even grandmother has said often : 
Why don t they send that little lady to school? 
She ought to be at school. So I suppose you must 
go, sure enough, and it is all right; but it is very 
har hard !" said the boy, valiantly trying to sup 
press a sob, and succeeding in doing so. 

"Yes, it is hard; but Uncle Marcel says that he 
and you must console each other; and he says he 
will lend you books and give you advice, and help 
you, if you wish, to improve your mind, David Lind 
say. And here, come in here, and see what I have 
got for you ! I told uncle I was going to give them 
to you, and he did not object. And old Laban 
brought them down here for me yesterday. Come 
and see," she said, as she led the way into the old 
boat-house and pointed to the trunk. 

"Oh!" exclaimed the boy. "Books?" 

"Yes! Drag the trunk out into the light where 
I can show it to you, David Lindsay." 

The boy obeyed. 

The girl then unlocked the trunk and gleefully 
displayed its contents, looking up into the boy s 
face with eyes dancing with the delight of delight 
ing. Indeed, his eyes, radiant with rapture, re 
sponded fully. 

"Oh! oh! what heaps of books and things!" he 


"They are all, all yours, David Lindsay !" 

"Oh. ! oh ! how generous you are ! And oh ! how 
happy you must be !" he exclaimed, fairly catching 
his breath in ecstasy. 

"Indeed I am very, very happy, David Lindsay !" 
she cried. 

And so she was at that moment, while looking on 
her playmate s happiness, and forgetting that she 
had to leave him soon and go away from home. 

And then both went to work and tumbled out all 
the slates, pencils, and pens, all the "Peter Par 
leys/ and other attractive school books. 

Finally, at the bottom of the trunk, lay two 
thick volumes, which little Glo with some difficulty 
lifted out and took upon her lap, and playfully hid 
with her handkerchief, saying: 

"And now, David Lindsay, here are two precious, 
precious treasures, too precious to be read very 
often !" 

"What is it?" said the boy "the Holy Bible in 
two volumes?" 

"No," answered the girl, gravely and sweetly. 
"The Word of the Lord is the Book of books, and 
not to be talked of with others." 

"Well, then, is it the Lives of the Saints?" 

"No," she answered, smiling ; "but you can never 
guess. This one in blue and gold is the Arabian 
Nights Entertainment, and this one in crimson, 
with the painted picture on the cover, is Fairy 
Tales. Oh ! they are just splendid, David Lindsay ! 
I love them, and so will you ; but you ought not to 
read them until you have done all your work and 
lessons for the day. Mamma never let me have the 
story-books until I had done my lessons," said the 
little girl, solemnly. 


Meanwhile David was looking at the new books. 

"I I like these a heap better than I do the 
school ones," he said, as he turned over the pages. 

"Oh, to be sure! So do I. But they are only 
holiday books, you know." 

"Yes, these are only holidays, and these are work 
ing hours/ said the boy, with a sigh and a smile, 
as he began to replace the volumes in the bottom 
of the trunk. 

"I will put them all back again, if you want to 
go to work, David Lindsay," she said, as she joined 
him in the task that soon, at her word, he left her 
to complete. Then the sound of his hammer kept 
time to her hands as they quickly stowed away the 
treasures in the trunk. 

Presently the boy stopped hammering and came 
to speak to her again. 

"You are so good to me. You do so much for me, 
and I do not do any for you. I have not found out 
what to do for you ! Oh, could you tell me what I 
could do for you?" 

She opened her blue eyes wide with astonish 
ment pure and simple. 

"Why, why, you are always doing ever so much 
to please me !" she said. 

"Now what? Do just tell me what?" he asked. 

She paused in thought so long that he asked 
again, earnestly: 

"What do I do to please you?" 

"Oh, I don t know just what in particular, but 
you do everything every day, all the time! Why, 
David Lindsay, if you was to go to heaven and 
leave me behind, I should just cry my eyes out! 
Yes, I should just sit down on the old boat here 
and cry my eyes out!" And moved by the picture 


her imagination had drawn, she might have given 
him a practical illustration, if he had not quickly 
responded : 

"But I am not going to heaven to leave you be 
hind ! All we Lindsay fishermen live to be old men 
of eighty or ninety, if we don t get drowned, you 
know! Though indeed, for the matter of that, we 
mostly do get drowned," he added, in a lower tone. 

But she heard him, and quickly cried : 

"Oh ! Don t you go and get drowned, please don t, 
David Lindsay!" 

"Indeed, I don t mean to!" said the boy, as he 
went back to his hammering. 

At that moment the colored girl, Lamia, appeared 
in the breach of the wall, calling for Miss Gloria. 

The child stood up, and answered : 

"Here I am. Who wants me?" 

"Your aunt! Leastways, your uncle s aunt 
Miss Aggravatin Discrepancy," said Lamia. 

(That was what the negroes, with their usual 
blundering manner, made out of the lady s classic 
and elegant maiden name.) 

"What does my aunt want with me, Lamia?" 
inquired the child, with a troubled look. 

"To try on yer travelin dress, which me an Miss 
Aggravatin has been a rippin up of one of her own 
old allypackers to make over for you, an ? a cuttin 
an a bastin of it all de whole mornin . Come 
along, chile, cause it s got to be finished to-night, 
ef we sets up workin on it till to-morrow mornin ." 

"I must go, David Lindsay. I must go. But I 
will come back as soon as ever I can get away. 
And oh, won t you please try to get through your 
work so as to take time to row me over to Sandy 
Hill to take leave of dee-ar Granny Lindsay? Oh, 


indeed I must go and take leave of dee-ar Granny 
Lindsay!" said little Glo , looking earnestly in the 
face of her playmate. 

"I will work fast and get through all I have to 
do. I won t stop for dinner, but will work through 
the noon hour, and then I can get done by four 
o clock and be ready for you," replied the boy. 

Little Glo ran home so as to get through the "try 
ing on" as soon as possible. 

She found her aunt too busy to question her as 
to where she had been. 

Miss Agrippina did not detain her long, but as 
soon as the waist of the dress was fitted, and the 
length of the sleeves and skirt measured, she dis 
missed the child. 

Full of a new idea, little Glo ran to seek her 

She found Colonel de Crespigney in the library, 
seated before the old organ, drawing weird music 
from its worn-out keys. 

"Marcel, dee-ar, I have only got a day and a half 
now ! Won t you please let David Lindsay off from 
his w r ork, so he can take me in the row-boat over 
to bid good-by to Granny Lindsay? Oh, I must say 
good-by to dee-ar Granny Lindsay before I go," she 
pleaded, laying her tender cheek against his face. 

"Yes, love," answered the gentle young uncle. 
"Yes, you shall have your little will while you stay 
here. Go and tell the lad to leave off work at once 
and row you over to the island." 

She kissed him in warm gratitude and sped away 
to the landing, where she found her playmate still 
at work. 

She told him her joyful news, exclaiming glee 


"We shall have a whole half-day holiday, for it is 
only just twelve o clock, David Lindsay ! We shall 
have, oh, such a happy, happy half day !" 

The boy quickly stopped his work and got his 
boat ready. 

Then the children lifted the trunk of books be 
tween them and placed it in the skiff. Lastly they 
entered and seated themselves, and David took up 
the oars and rowed for the isle. 

They found the old dame busily engaged in pre 
paring her frugal early dinner of tea and bread and 
butter, with fried fish, boiled eggs, and peaches and 

She gave the little lady a warm welcome and 
divested her of her hat and mantle. And while 
Gloria explained that her uncle had given David 
Lindsay a half holiday, the dame added two more 
cups and saucers and teaspoons and two more plates 
and pairs of knives and forks to the table and put 
a few more eggs on to boil. 

"I am going to school on Monday, Granny Lind 
say, and I have come to take leave of you," said 
little Glo , when she took the seat that David had 
placed for her. 

"Have ee, darling? I m glad to see ee, and main 
glad to hear ee s going to school," cordially replied 
the dame. 

"I don t want to go, Granny Lindsay! I don t 
want to leave you all," sighed the child. 

"But ee ought to, darling. Ee s a little lady, 
and ee ought to be trained up as such." 

"But I don t want to be, Granny Lindsay! I 
want to stay home with dee-ar Marcel and you and 
David Lindsay!" sadly persisted the child. 


i " ? Eee must subject eeself to ? ee pastors and 
masters, little lady. They do all for ? ee own good." 

"Aunt Agrippina says that I am a countess, 
Granny Lindsay ; but I know I am not. I am worse 
at counting than at anything else. I never could 
learn the multiplication table," said the child, with 
a look of perplexity and vexation. 

"So much the more reason for ? ee to go to school, 
my little lady! Now sit ? ee up to table and have 
some dinner." 

Little Glo soon forgot her trouble in the society 
of Granny Lindsay and David. 

She passed a "happy, happy half day," then, with 
many kisses, took a loving leave of her old friend, 
and returned home in charge of the fisher lad. 

It was sunset when they landed on the promon 
tory beach. 

"To-morrow is Sunday. Uncle and aunt and I 
will go to church at La Compte s Landing. But 
after church we shall come directly home. Will 
you come in the afternoon to bid me a last good-by 
before I go? You know we are to start before day 
on Monday, so as to catch the St. Inigoes stage 
coach," said little Glo , as she was about to take 
leave of her friend. 

"Yes, indeed. I am going to church at St. 
Inigoes, but I will go to early mass, so as to be back 
in time to come here in the afternoon," replied the 

"So do! Good-night, David Lindsay!" 


"God bless you, David Lindsay !" 

"And you, too!" 

She sped away towards the house, not singing 


and dancing as had been her custom. Her little 
loving heart was too heavy with the thought of part 
ing with her friends. 

The next day she went with her uncle and aunt to 
morning service at La Compte s Landing, returned 
with them to a early dinner, and then went down 
to the beach to bid a last good-by to her friend and 

He was waiting for her with a box of fine shells 
in his hand. 

"These are some that grandfather brought home 
from the Indian Ocean. Granny has kept them for 
a long time; but she wants you to have them now," 
he said, rising and offering the box. 

"Oh, how beautiful !" she exclaimed, sitting down 
with the box on her lap, and beginning to examine 
them. "So many different colors ! so many different 
shapes and sizes! Not two alike!" 

"People can make pretty boxes and vases out of 
them, granny says. Make the boxes and things out 
of pasteboard, you know, and stick the shells on 
them with glue," said the boy, as he stood looking 
down on her, pleased that she was pleased with his 
humble offering. 

"Oh, but I think it would spoil the pretty shells 
to fix them on to anything ! I like them to be free, 
so I can pour them from one hand to the other, and 
turn them over ! Oh, David Lindsay, I am so glad 
to have them! And so glad you gave them to me,, 
too !" 

"Granny gave them to me to give to you." 

"Well, it is all the same, David Lindsay. And I 
will take the pretty little things to school with me, 
and look at them every day, and keep them forever 


and ever. Sit down by me and let us look at the 
little beauties together. You know that this is our 
last day." 

The boy obeyed her. 

She said it was their "last day ;" and that day was 
drawing rapidly to a close. The children knew that 
they were going to part, but they scarcely knew yet 
what the parting was to be to them; they had had 
no experience in separation; and both wondered a 
little in secret why they felt no more pain at the 
immediate prospect of losing each other. 

When the sun set, which was always the signal 
for their daily good-night, little Gloria shut up her 
box of shells and arose, saying : 

"I must go now. Good-by, David Lindsay." 


"God bless you, David Lindsay!" 

"And you too!" 

Now, according to custom, she should have run 
home; but she lingered, loth to leave the spot. 

"You know we are going to start long before day 
light to-morrow morning," she said. 

"I know it!" he gasped with a great sob. 

"Oh! David Lindsay, don t cry!" she wailed, 
with the tears rushing to her eyes. 

"I m not crying. It s a lump in my throat," said 
the poor boy. 

"Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! What shall I do? I don t 
want to go to school ! I don t want to be a lady ! I 
don t ! I don t ! And poor Marcel don t want me to 
go, neither!" wept the child. 

"And no more do I!" cried the boy, struggling 
with the "lump in his throat." 

"Don t cry, David Lindsay. Oh! please don t 


"I m not crying a bit ! But I don t want you to 
go away," sobbed the lad. 

"Nobody does, but Aunt Grip. It is all Aunt 
Grip! Oh! I wish she had never come near the 
place ! We were all so happy until she came ! And 
she says it is all for my own good. And I think 
that is too bad!" 

Little Glo s last words awoke the better spirit of 
the boy. 

He sobbed and sighed, and then set himself to 
comfort the little lady. 

"She means it for your good. Even granny says 
you ought to go to school. And so I know it must 
be all right for you to go. And you will come back 
again, and be able to tell me lots of things." 

"Oh, yes, indeed; I will come back for the 
Christmas holidays, you know. And oh! David 
Lindsay, every time I write to dee-ar Marcel I will 
send a message to you. And will you send one back 
to me, too?" 

"If the master will let me." 

"Why, of course he will let you ! Dee-ar Marcel 
is too tender-hearted to refuse. Let me tell you 
something. Aunt Grip, ever since she has been 
here, has been trying to prevent me from coming 
out here and playing with you, and if it had not 
been for dee-ar Marcel, she would have prevented 
me; but Marcel would not let me be grieved that 

The twilight was fading so fast that the child 
looked up to the sky in alarm, exclaiming: 

"Oh! I must go! I must go! Good-by, dee-ar 
David Lindsay!" 


"I must walk with you up to the house. It is too 
dark for you to go by yourself," said the boy, ris 
ing to accompany her. 

He helped her over the rough stones of the 
broken sea wall, and then walked with her until 
they reached the porch and found Colonel de Cres- 
pigney and Miss Agrippina sitting out there to en 
joy the delicious coolness of the August evening. 

Then the boy paused and lifted his torn straw 
hat, and said : 


"Good-night. God bless you, dee-ar David Lind 

"And you too !" 

So the children parted, to meet no more for years 
to come. 

That night David Lindsay, being a boy, and 
therefore ashamed of his tears, cried "all alone by 
himself in the little loft of his island cot. 

That night, little Glo , being a girl, sobbed her 
self to sleep on the sympathetic bosom of her 
"dee-ar Marcel." 

Long before light the next morning she took tear 
ful leave of her uncle and her humble colored 
friends, and started in the custody of Miss Grip for 
the distant city where she was to spend her school 

Before the end of the month she was duly entered 
as a resident pupil in the Academy of the Sacred 
Heart Convent. And Miss Agrippina de Crespi- 
gney returned to Promontory Hall to keep house for 
her nephew, well satisfied. 




Out of the convent came the maid. 


WE have lingered so long over the lovely child 
hood of little Glo that we have no time to give to 
her school-days. 

In entering her at the "Sacret Heart," Miss 
Agrippina had enrolled her as the "Countess Maria 
da Gloria de la Vera," and had provided her with 
as rich and costly an outfit as the rigid rules of 
the academy would permit. She had also fur 
nished her with a plenty of pocket-money. 

All this had given the simple-hearted, humble- 
minded little Glo a grand rank among her untitled 
and less wealthy school-mates, who did all they 
possibly could do to transform her from a meek 
and lovely child to a proud and supercilious young 

Poor David Lindsay did not realize the loss of 
little Glo until she had really gone. Then he "sor 
rowed without hope." It is true that he believed 
she would return at Christmas; but that was four 
long months off. 

From the fourth day of her departure he began 
to watch for the return of old Laban from his 
Tuesday s and Friday s trips to St. Inigoes ? Post- 
office, and on his appearance would call out: 

"Any letters, Uncle Laban?" 

The answers were always: 



Then, after the decent delay of an hour, the poor 
boy would go up to the house and bashfully ask 
for the colonel, and when admitted to his presence 
stand respectfully, cap in hand, and inquire: 

"If you please, sir, have you heard from " 

"Miss de la Vera?" 

"Yes, sir, please." 

"I have. She is well, and sends her kind remem 
brance to you," would Colonel de Crespigney reply. 

(Now this was not at all what little Glo sent. 
She sent her "love to dear David Lindsay." But 
Colonel de Crespigney exercised the guardian s pru 
dence and privilege in translating the message sent 
through him.) 

On hearing this, the boy would twist his little 
torn hat in his hand and say, timidly, hesitatingly : 

"If you please, sir, when you write would you 
please to say I thank her very much for thinking 
of me, and I send her my " 


"Yes, sir, please." (Now this was not at all what 
the poor boy meant to say; for he really wished to 
send his "best love to her.") 

The parted children had no true interpreter, so 
no wonder a gulf opened and widened between 
them. But Marcel meant well ; and David Lindsay 
was destined to have his turn, when, driven by the 
very outrage and stress of fate, the lovely heiress 
should lay her hand and fortune at the feet of the 
poor fisherman and implore him to take them up. 

She did not come home for the happy Christmas 
holidays. Miss Agrippina represented to her 
brother that to bring the "Countess Maria" back 


to the promontory would be to have all the trouble 
of parting to go through again; that therefore she 
had best be left to spend her holidays at the school 
where she was receiving her education. 

The gentle colonel, through indolence and good 
nature, had fallen more and more under the 
dominion of his maiden aunt, and therefore con 
sented to all her plans. 

So little Glo did not come home for her Christ 
mas holidays. But her young uncle, who had not 
ceased to mourn in secret the absence of his pet, 
aroused himself from his lethargy, and went to the 
city, and took his niece from her prison, and spent 
the Christmas holidays with her at a fashionable 
hotel, taking her every evening to some place of re 
fined amusement, and so devoting himself to her 
pleasure that the little rustic had reason to believe 
that, after all said, the city was the true Arcadia, 
and life, as "dee-ar Marcel" made it for her, a 
lovely fairy tale. 

But in all the delights of her new vista of life, 
she did not yet forget her childhood s playmate, 
and amid her many questions about "them all at 
home," she did not fail to inquire about "dee-ar 
David Lindsay." 

Her guardian replied that the boy was well and 
doing well, but had not come to borrow any books 
yet, and, perhaps, was not so much interested in 
improving his mind as she had supposed. Boys of 
his class were not likely to be so. 

"But, Marcel, you must interest yourself in him, 
and not let his interest in his books flag. That was 
not what I expected of you, Marcel !" said his little 
monitress, reproachfully. 


"I will do better when I return, my darling," re 
plied her penitent. 

"Mind you do, Marcel! He has no father, no 
guardian even, and who will look after my David 
Lindsay now I am away, if you do not?" 

On the Monday after Twelfth Day he replaced 
the little student in her school and returned to his 
own dreary home and musty books. 

He corresponded with her regularly through the 
winter and spring and the early summer ; and noted 
the great improvement she was making. 

There was one thing, however, that very much 
annoyed him in her letters. She always sent her 
"love to dear David Lindsay." But he took care to 
translate this into "kind remembrance," and to 
send back David s "respects." So the gulf widened 
and widened between the hearts of the children. 

But David s time was yet to come. 

Then, on the first of July, when the midsummer 
holidays were about to commence, he went to the 
city again, took his child out from her prison and 
carried her off to the Greenbriar White Sulphur 
Springs to give her a glimpse of the glorious moun 
tain scenery, and an insight into the great world 
of society. Here the handsome young widower, the 
heroic young officer, with the laurels won in 
Mexico yet green in the memories of all, might 
have become the hero of the season; but nothing 
could win him away from his "child." He rode 
and drove with her through the wild and beautiful 
forest and mountain scenery. He read with her, 
sang duets with her, played ten-pins with her, and 
generally "made a fool of himself about her," as 
more than one aggravated matron with marriage- 


able daughters declared. In September he took his 
child back to her school just a year older, and sev 
eral years more experienced than she had been 
when she first entered the institution. 

And now he had reason to congratulate himself 
on one thing. His ward s interest in the poor 
fisher-boy was evidently dying out, as he had first 
said it would. It was well enough that they should 
have played together as little children, and he had 
not therefore interfered to prevent them. He was 
too tender-hearted indeed to have given them so 
much pain. But now, at last, it was all ended, as 
it should be. 

The first year was a type of all that followed 
while she remained at the "Sacred Heart." Every 
Christmas her young uncle would go and take her 
from the school and spend the holidays with her at 
a hotel, taking her to places of amusement suitable 
to her age; and at the end of the holidays replac 
ing her at school and returning to his own home. 

Every June he would go and take her for the 
midsummer vacation, and travel with her to some 
delightful summer resort among the mountains, or 
on the lake shores, returning her to her convent 
early in September, and then repairing to his own 

Sometimes his mother would write and ask him 
to bring his young ward and join her circle at New 
port, or Niagara, or wherever they might have de 
cided to spend their summer season. 

But Colonel de Crespigney always found some 
good excuse for politely declining the invitation. 

The very truth was that Marcel preferred to have 
his little Glo all to himself during these long mid 
summer vacations. 


Her vivid and deep delight in all the sublime and 
beautiful in nature and in art, rekindled his own 
smouldering enthusiasm and revived his fading 

Thus, through her, he enjoyed life anew. Now 
his time was divided like the Arctic year into long 
darkness and long light. The time spent in his 
gloomy "penitentiary" on the promontory, was his 
Arctic night; the time passed in wandering and 
sight-seeing with his brilliant and ardent little 
traveling companion, was his Arctic day. 

David Lindsay, chilled by the cold "remem 
brances," that grew cold only in the refrigerator 
of MarcePs translations, gradually ceased to in 
quire after Miss de la Vera, or send his "respects" 
to her. 

And so the great gulf between the young souls 
seemed impassable, until one desperate leap in the 
dark cleared it. 

Meanwhile the years rolled rapidly onward; his 
child was growing up, and he himself was growing 

The last time he took her out to spend her mid 
summer vacation in traveling with him through a 
succession of beautiful summer resorts, he was 
thirty-five years old, with perhaps a dozen silver 
threads scattered over his fine head, but glistening 
with terrible conspicuousness amid the jetty black 
ness of his hair. She was just fifteen, tall and well- 
developed for her years, a radiant blonde, with a 
delicate Grecian profile, fair, clear transparent 
complexion, large, soft, dark blue eyes, veiled by 
dark eyelashes, and arched by dark eyebrows, and 


with an aureole of lightly flowing, pale, golden- 
hued hair. 

Marcel had not seen her since the preceding 
Christmas holidays, a period of nearly seven 
months, during which she had bloomed from the 
bud to the half-opened rose of womanhood. 

He looked at her with surprised and delighted 
admiration. He said nothing on the subject, ex 
pressed no opinion, paid no compliment only he 
refused more emphatically than ever his mother s 
invitation to bring his niece and join her party 
at Cacouna, Canada; and he resolved, more firmly 
than ever, to keep his lovely ward to himself. 

Indeed, little Gloria desired nothing better. She 
loved her young uncle with all the devotion of a 
grateful, loyal, fervent heart, and was perfectly 
satisfied with his companionship, and only his, in 
all their summer wanderings and sojournings. She 
had no one else to love, poor child ; her Aunt Agrip- 
pina she had only feared ; and her childhood s play 
mate, David Lindsay, she only remembered tender 
ly, like one lost long ago, or like the dead. Marcel 
was all in all to her. 

On this last occasion of which I speak, when 
Colonel de Crespigney, first seeing his young ward 
after a seven months absence, was startled into 
surprise and admiration at the discovery that the 
pretty child had bloomed into the beautiful girl, 
he resolved that this should be her last year at 
school; that whether she should graduate or not 
graduate at the next annual commencement, he 
should withdraw her from the Sacred Heart Acad 
emy and bring her home "for good." 

And then? 

Marcel kept his future plans to himself. 



His heart 

Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
There was but one beloved face on earth, 
That ever shone upon him. He had looked 
Upon it till it would not pass away, 
But she in these fond feelings had no share; 
To her he was a brother; twas a name 
Her infant friendship had bestowed on him- 
No more. BYRON. 

THE years that had been spent by Gloria in study 
during the school terms, or in travel during her va 
cations, had been passed by David Lindsay on the 
little sandy island near the promontory. 

This was his post of duty. Here his aged grand 
mother still lived without any companion or pro 
tector but himself. 

He had steadily worked on the fishing landing, 
and he had employed his limited leisure in study 
ing the elementary school books left him by his lit 
tle playmate. He had thoroughly mastered them 
all, and now he longed for more liberty and better 
means of culture. But, true sentinel of Provi 
dence, he would not leave his sterile post of duty 
to attain them. 

He had long ceased to ask after Gloria, chilled 
by the coldness with which his modest inquiries 
had been met by Colonel de Crespigney. 

But he had never forgotten his childhood friend. 
He cherished the memory of the summers passed 


in the society of his little playmate as the happiest 
portions of his poor life; and he worshiped her im 
age, that in the light of that memory shone like 
the vision of an angel. 

It was she who had found him on the beach toil 
ing at his daily task, and had awakened his strong 
but dormant intelligence, and inspired him with 
the love and longing for knowledge. 

He owed her this good, and was glad and grateful 
to owe it. 

One morning in June, he arose early, as usual, 
and looking out from the little loft window of his 
bedroom in the island cot, he saw an unusual thing 
a large schooner at the old promontory wharf, 
and men landing many boxes, barrels and kegs. 

He had a job of work to cio on the landing that 
day, so he dressed himself quickly, ate his break 
fast in a hurry, got into his little old boat, and in a 
few moments rowed himself to the wharf. 

"What is all this to-do?" he inquired of old 
Laban, who was busy receiving the goods. 

"Corne ashore and lend a hand here! Our young 
lady is coming home for good dis fall, and de house 
an ? groun is to be done up splendidly for her an 
outen her money, too, for I know Marse Colonel 
hasn t got none to spare!" answered the negro, as 
he let down a heavy box he had been helping to 

David Lindsay secured his boat, sprang on the 
wharf, and gave his assistance to the men. 

"So Miss de la Vera is really coming home?" he 
ventured to ask of Laban. 

"Yes, on de first October ! Ole Marse Colonel, he 
done gone to Baltimo to take her out n school when 
de holidays come, an dey s gwine for a trip to Lun- 


nun or Europ , or some o dem dere outlandish 
savidge parts o de worl , an dey s gwine to be gone 
all de summer; but dey s comin back in de fall; 
dat is, ef so be de cannibals out in dem dere parts 
don t kill an eat em fust! I fink it s downright 
dange ous an a temptin o Providence to leave 
one s spectable home an go traipsin off to dem 
dare igno nt places Lunnun an Europ , and de 
like!" exclaimed Laban, in a tone of disgust and 

"Miss de la Vera going to Europe!" said David 
Lindsay, to himself rather than to Laban. 

"Hi ! what I tell you, boy? Yes, gwine to Europ 
long o Marse Colonel Discrepancy! Gwine to see 
de savidges what lib across de big sea. Dare now, 
yer got it. I calls it a downright fiyin inter de face 
ob Providence. I does! What he fink, de Lord 
A mighty put de big sea a rollin tween we an de 
cannibals for he to go an sail across it on a big 
ship out n contrariness?" said Laban. 

"Is Miss Agrippina to be one of the party?" in 
quired the young man. 

"No. Miss Aggravater is gwine to stay here to 
watch the workmen. Miss Aggravater gwine in 
deed ! Catch her at it ! Wish she was, dough ! She 
might go, dout any danger. Cannibals wouldn t 
eat her, leastways not if dey wa n t uncommon 

David Lindsay said no more, but mused, as he 
helped to land the goods. 

"Dere s an arckman an a decorum an a skip- 
pin gardener comin down by de stage-coach to 
morrow," explained Laban, meaning the architect, 
decorator and landscape gardener engaged by 
Colonel de Crespigney to transfigure the drearjr 


promontory and its prison-like buildings into a 
habitable home for the young heiress. 

"And a precious deal ob money it is a gwine to 
cost, too, wherever it comes from^ which I do Aspects 
it ll be out n Miss Glo s own fortin , for Marse 
Colonel Discrepancy hasn t got too much to tro 
away, dat I knows." 

Laban was mistaken. He had been misled by 

Marcel de Crespigney, leading his hermit life at 
the promontory, never receiving company and never 
going from home except when he went to take his 
ward from school, spent little money, had few 
wants, and lived like a very much poorer gentleman 
than he really was. 

Hence, in the years he had spent at the promon 
tory, the revenues from the fisheries, though not 
large, had been left to accumulate until they had 
reached a round sum, which he determined to in 
vest in the restoration and improvement of Prom 
ontory Hall, to make his home as attractive as pos 
sible to his beautiful and beloved ward. 

The goods brought to the wharf were all landed 
and stored away in the old dilapidated store-house, 
and then the schooner sailed away, and David Lind 
say crossed the point to the fishing landing and set 
about his own especial work. 

The next day the architect, decorator and land 
scape gardener came, and work began. The three 
principals went back and forth between the prom 
ontory and the city once or twice a month, but 
the workmen remained, and were quartered in the 
house, to the great discontent of Miss Agrippina, 
who vowed that she had never spent such a disa 
greeable summer in all the days of her life. 


The works were all completed, however, by the 
middle of October ; the gray stone walls of the old 
house were completely covered by a veneering of 
thin white slabs, that gave the building the appear 
ance of a marble palace. French plate-glass win 
dows opened upon piazzas with mosaic* floors and 
Corinthian pillars. A mansard roof crowned the 
mansion. A fine garden, with a parterre of flowers, 
bloomed around it. Beyond that, the once barren 
fields were verdant with grass. The fishing land 
ing on the point had been abolished as an ugly 
nuisance, and a pretty pier, with an equally pretty 
boat-house, had been erected on the place. The 
old sea-wall was repaired and a hedge of Osage 
orange trees was planted on its inner side. 

Within the house every part was refurnished 
freshly and handsomely, if not very expensively. 

When the finishing touch was put to the hanging 
of the mirrors and the drooping of the curtains, 
the decorator and the upholsterer, who were the 
last of the artisans to depart, came to take leave of 
Miss Agrippina de Crespigney. 

"And I suppose you are very glad to see the last 
of us, ma am," said Mr. Bracket, the great artist 
in "effects." 

"I should rather see you here than your suc 
cessors," replied Miss Agrippina, with even unusual 

"Beg pardon?" said Bracket, interrogatively. 

"I say I would rather see you here than your cer 
tain successors, the sheriff s officers, for I expect 
they will be the next strangers I shall be called 
upon to entertain ! Such extravagance I never did 
see in all the days of my life! Well, I thank Provi- 


dence my little portion is safe enough. Marcel 
can t make ducks and drakes out of that." 

The two men bowed themselves out of Mrs. 
"Aggravated" presence and went their way. 

Colonel de Crespigney and Gloria were expected 
home in a few days. They had returned from their 
European tour in a steamer bound for Quebec, and 
were making a short tour through Canada, before 
completing their travels. 

The first of October was a glorious autumn day. 
The sun was shining with dazzling splendor from 
a deep blue, cloudless sky; a soft, bright golden 
haze hung over the gorgeously colored woods and 

The new carriage and horses had been sent to 
St. Inigoes to meet the stage that was to bring the 
travelers that far on their journey home. It was 
from this circumstance that David Lindsay knew 
that Colonel de Crespigney and Gloria were ex 
pected to arrive that afternoon. He knew, besides, 
that they could only come at low tide, when the 
waves would have ebbed from the "neck" and left 
the road free. There would be low tide at half-past 
three o clock. 

Now the poor young fisherman was seized with 
an irresistible longing to look once more upon the 
face of her whom he had loved with the purest and 
most devoted affection, from the hour of their child 
hood when she found him on the beach and claimed 
him as her playmate until this hour, when, after a 
seven years absence, she was returning home. If 
he should not succeed in getting a glimpse of her 
now, he feared that he might never see her again, 
for his occupation on the promontory was gone, 


since the fishing-landing had been replaced by a 
pier and a boat-house. 

He took his fishing-rod and went down on the 
neck at low tide, to wait for her carriage to pass. 

He sat on a high rock, and baited his hook for 
"sheep s-head," which most did congregate about 
that spot. But before he could cast his line into 
the sea, the sound of wheels was heard approaching. 
He looked up and saw the promontory carriage 
coming slowly down the gradual descent leading on 
to the neck. He drew his broad-brimmed staw hat 
low over his eyes, and his heart almost stood still 
as he muttered within himself: 

"Will she recognize David Lindsay? I should 
know her anywhere, or after any length of time." 

The carriage was coming. It was wide open, the 
top had been thrown quite down, both back and 
front, that the travelers might enjoy the fresh air 
and fine scenery of land and water on that delicious 
October afternoon. 

On the coachman s box sat Laban, lazily holding 
the reins. On the front seat, with his back to the 
negro, sat Colonel de Crespigney, with his traveling 
cap on his knees before him, leaving his fine head, 
with his waving black hair and beard and his Ro 
man features, bare. 

Opposite him, on the back seat, sat a very restless 
young lady, with the face of an eager, vivacious 
child a face with a delicate Grecian profile, a 
dainty, rosebud complexion, sparkling, glad blue 
eyes, and rippling, golden-hued hair. 

She was constantly springing from side to side, 
gazing now on the right, now on the left, to catch 
glimpses of distant objects, once familiar, but long 


"Oh, uncle!" she gladly exclaimed. "I can see 
the tall trees on this side of the dee-ar old house !" 

"Wait until you see the house, my darling!" he 
replied, conscious of the surprise he should give her 
when he should show her the gray old "peniten 
tiary" transfigured to a white palace. 

A few more turns of the wheel and he exclaimed : 

"Look !" 

But the effect was not what he desired and ex 
pected. She turned on him a surprised and dis 
tressed face, exclaiming : 

"Oh, Marcel, what is that? Where is the dee-ar 
old home?" 

"There it is, my precious child ! That is the old 
home, renovated and adorned, and made worthy to 
receive its fair young mistress," replied the colonel, 
with evident self-complacency. 

"Oh, Marcel, how could you? How could you do 
such a thing?" she cried, reproachfully "how 
could you treat the dee-ar old home that way? It 
is not familiar; it is not the same at all! I do not 
know it at all! Oh, I am so disappointed and so 
sorry !" 

"My dear, I thought to have given you a pleasant 
surprise. I thought only of your happiness," re 
plied the poor colonel. 

"And I expected to find the dee-ar old place just 
as I left it! Just as I left it ! And, oh ! look there !" 

"What now, my dear?" 

"Oh, Marcel ! what have you done to the old sea 
wall and the dee-ar old fishing landing, where I and 
David Lindsay used to play when we were chil 

"My dear, that fishing-landing was a nuisance to 
sight and smell. See what a pretty pier and boat- 


house are built on its site," said Colonel de Cres- 

"Oh, Marcel! how could you? How could you? 
You have spoiled everything! You have spoiled 
everything! You have killed the dee-ar old place! 
Instead of a living being in poor old clothes, it is a 
dead corpse in fine dress and flowers. Oh, I shall 
never see the dee-ar old house and the dee-ar old 
landing again ! If I had known this I would never 
have come back! I might as well have stayed in 
Europe. Oh, I am so disappointed and so sorry I 
could break my heart !" cried the girl, with a pit 
eous look of distress into the face of her guardian ; 
but there she met an expression of so much misery 
that her tone changed instantly from reproaches to 

"Oh, what a selfish, ungrateful wretch I am, 
dee-ar Marcel! And such an idiotic little fool be 
sides. You did it all to please me, and I ought to 
be glad and grateful, and so I shall be when I have 
sense enough to appreciate it all; dee-ar Marcel, 
forgive me," she pleaded, bending forward to lay 
her cheek against his whiskered face, as she had 
been used to do in her childhood. 

"I am only so grieved, my child, to have given 
you pain instead of pleasure; but no doubt I am 
but a blundering brute !" sighed the colonel. 

"Oh, no, no; you are the very best and dearest 
and most unselfish one in the world. I cannot re 
member the time when I did not love and honor 
you above all other ones on earth !" 

"My little Glo>, it was all the more reason I 
should have studied your nature and planned for 
your happiness more intelligently," sadly replied 
the colonel. 


"Oh, Marcel ! Don t say that, or I shall think you 
have not forgiven me. You have studied my happi 
ness more than I deserved. You have done the very 
best for me always. In regard to these changes, 
they certainly do make a great improvement, which 
I shall be sure to appreciate and enjoy. It was 
only just at first, when I was looking to see the 
dee-ar old place in its old familiar face, that the 
change struck me as a disappointment, and I am 
such a fool for blurting out my very first thoughts 
and feelings!" said Gloria, caressing her uncle. 

She was disappointed, poor girl; for to return 
some time to the old home and the old life had been 
the fond dream of the young, faithful heart in the 
long years of her exile and homesickness ; and now 
to return and find all changed, even for the better, 
was a painful shock. 

Colonel de Crespigney knew it now, and could not 
forgive himself for not anticipating such an effect. 

"Do not look so grave, Marcel, or I shall think 
you never will forget my folly," she pleaded. "Lis 
ten, now, and let me tell you something, Marcel! 
Seeing the dee-ar old place all freshened up, and 
decorated and changed into something else, was just 
as if, when I was looking for you, and expecting to 
see you as you used to look why instead of my 
dee-ar, old, black-bearded darkey of an uncle, I had 
found a golden-haired, rosy-cheeked young fairy 
prince! There! That expresses my feelings in re 
gard to seeing the dee-ar old home changed into 
something else !" 

De Crespigney smiled; he felt pleased and flat 
tered ; he also understood her better and loved her 
more, as he remembered that she had always cher 
ished a sweet, loyal love for old familiar friends and 


places. He suddenly recalled the days when he 
had first known her as an infant of three years old, 
when some one had broken the head of her doll, and 
he himself had bought her a splendid young lady 
of waxen mould with rosy cheeks and flaxen hair, 
and dressed in silk attire, how she had hugged her 
poor old headless dolly to her faithful little heart 
and refused to part with it in favor of the radiant 
new one. 

And later when she first arrived at the Promon 
tory, bringing a little mongrel dog, who died soon 
after, and to comfort her he brought home a little 
white poodle, how sadly she turned away from the 
new claimant of her notice, murmuring, "Oh, uncle, 
I can t love another little dog so soon," though 
a few days afterwards she picked up the little 
poodle and petted him, muttering, "Poor Carlo, it 
wasn t your fault that poor little Flora died, was 
it?" and loved him ever afterwards. 

About the same time, reading the story of 
"Beauty and the Beast/ she had sighed, and said, 
"If I had been Beauty I would have loved the dee-ar 
old Beast; I would not have wanted to have his 
head cut off to change him into anything else, not 
even a fairy prince!" 

All these traits of her childhood recurred to the 
mind of De Crespigney, as he listened to the little 
penitent s frank confession. 

"I understand, dear heart ! I understand perfect 
ly," he said, as he raised her hand and pressed it to 
his lips. 

She smiled radiantly on him, and then turned 
and looked about her, as if in search of other 


Then her eyes fell upon the form of a young man 
seated on a rock, and apparently engaged in fishing. 

She bent forward and suddenly exclaimed: 

"Oh, Marcel, there is David Lindsay ! I know it is 
David Lindsay! He has grown tall; of course, I 
expected to find him grown up, but he has the same 
face and eyes that I should know if I should meet 
him in Africa. Oh! I thank the Lord he is not 
changed into anything else ! Oh, Marcel ! I must 
speak to David Lindsay. Here, Laban, stop the 
horses ! Stop them right here !" 

The negro coachman touched his hat and drew 
up opposite the rock on which the young man sat, 
and within a few 7 feet of it. 

She leaned out, and called : 

"David Lindsay! David Lindsay! Oh, David 
Lindsay, please come here!" 

He looked up at the sound of her voice, and paled 
and shook with emotion as he drew in his fishing- 
line, laid it down beside him, arose, and approached 
the carriage. 

"Oh, David Lindsay, how do you do? I am so 
overjoyed to see you once more! Why! don t you 
remember me your old playmate of the fishing- 
landing?" she inquired, seeing that he hesitated to 
take the hand she had offered him. 

He took the delicately gloved fingers then, how 
ever, and bowed over them. 

"Why don t you remember the old sea-wall, and 
the old broken boat, and the good times we used to 
have there, and the little dinners we used to cook 
on the beach, and the little schools we used to keep? 
Don t you remember, David Lindsay?" she gladly 
inquired, with a childlike eagerness, as she smiled 
upon him. 


"Oh, yes, Miss, I remember well," he answered, 
in a low, subdued voice. 

"Oh, I think that was the happiest time in my 
whole life, David Lindsay! Don t you?" 

"It was the happiest time in mine, Miss," he re 
plied, in the same subdued tone, as he kept his eyes 
fixed upon the ground, not trusting them to look 
at her again. 

"And how is dear Granny Lindsay? Is she still at 
the cot on the isle? Is she as busy and active as 
ever?" inquired Gloria, with new interest in her 

"She is as well as she can be at seventy years of 
age, but more infirm than when you knew her last. 
She lives at the cot on the isle, and she is as busy, 
but not as active, as ever," he answered, slowly and 

"Oh, what happy, happy days we used to have at 
her house, David Lindsay! Such happy, happy 
days! Do you remember them?" 

Did he not remember them? 

Ah, yes ! but, with her bright face beaming down 
upon him, bringing the light of those days so vivid 
ly before him, with the memory of their frank, 
childish affection then, and the consciousness of the 
gulf that opened between them now, it had grown 
more and more difficult for him to answer her. Now 
he seemed tongue-tied. 

"Do you think she will let me come and spend a 
day with her, just as I used to do? Oh, how I 
should like to do so ! It would be so like old times ! 
Would she let me, David Lindsay?" 

"Indeed, she would be very happy to do so," re 
plied the young man, partly recovering his voice. 

"Well, then, w r ill you ask her if I may come to- 


morrow? And will you row me over, as you used 
to do, David Lindsay?" 
."I shall be too happy to do so, Miss de la Vera." 

"Ah, how glad I shall be to see dee-ar Granny 
Lindsay, and revive one of those old-time, happy, 
happy days !" exclaimed Gloria. 

"My dear," said Colonel de Crespigney, gravely, 
"the tide is coming in, and we are not more than 
half-way across. It is not safe to remain here a 
moment longer. We can scarcely cross before the 
road will be six feet under water !" 

"And David Lindsay has to walk ! He will never 
be able to cross in safety ! And it is I who have kept 
him loitering here! Oh, I am so sorry! But you 
must not walk, indeed, David Lindsay ! Get in here 
and sit beside me, if you please. Yes, but I insist 
upon it now!" she added, seeing that he did not 
comply with her request. 

"You had better do so, Lindsay," coldly added 
Colonel de Crespigney, as he left his own seat and 
sat down beside Gloria, leaving the front cushion 
free for the young man. 

"I thank you very much, Miss de la Vera, and you 
also, sir; but I can easily walk the way before the 
road will be covered," replied young Lindsay, as he 
bowed and retreated from the carriage. 

" *A willful man must have his way, " said the 

"Oh, Marcel, you did not invite him half cor 
dially enough !" cried Gloria. "And suppose he was 
to be overtaken by the tide and swept away !" 

"No danger. Look there," said the colonel, point 
ing to the road before the carriage, down which 
David Lindsay, with his fishing tackle in his hand, 
was striding at a good rate. 


The horses were now started and driven off at a 
speed. They passed the young man, who raised his 
hat as they whirled out of sight. 

"Marcel, I will never forgive you if David Lind 
say is drowned !" exclaimed Gloria. 

"No danger, Miss!" volunteered old Laban from 
the box. "There is a plenty o time, an he s a 
famous hand at walking." 

"Foot at walking, you mean, old man, don t 
you?" inquired Colonel de Crespigney. 

"I don t see how you can jest, Marcel, when any 
fellow-creature, not to say David Lindsay, is in 
peril," exclaimed Gloria, reproachfully. 

"Do you, then, suppose, my dear, that T am capa 
ble of jesting with the peril of any fellow-creature? 
Is not my jesting proof enough that there is no 
peril?" inquired the colonel, deprecatingly. 

She did not answer him. She had twisted her 
head quite around to look back on the figure of the 
young man, who was striding fast behind the car 

And during the remainder of their rapid drive 
she continued from time to time to look back at 
the striding figure, until at length they had crossed, 
the long stretch of road and reached the higher and 
broader portion of the promontory that was so soon 
to be turned by the high tide into an island. 

Then for the last time she looked and saw that 
though the lowest part of the isthmus was covered 
with the waves, yet as David Lindsay was already 
ascending the rise towards the promontory, he was 
out of danger. 

It was nearly dark when they reached the house, 
which was already lighted up for the reception of 
the travelers. 


Miss Agrippina de Crespigney, attended by So 
phia and Lamia, stood in the hall to welcome them 

She took Gloria by the waist, kissed her on both 
cheeks and said: 

"You are looking very well, my dear. How much 
you have grown !" 

And then Gloria returned her caresses and her 
compliments, saying: 

"You are looking finely, aunt. You are not 
changed at all. I think no one is changed except 
David Lindsay and myself. I think people must 
grow up and stay so until they become very old." 

But quick Miss Grip had already turned to her 
nephew to shake hands with him, and left Gloria 
free to receive the welcome of her colored friends, 

"How you has growed ! My patience alibe, how 
you has growed, honey !" was the greeting of Phia. 

" Deed I is mighty proud to see you, Miss Glo ? , 
deed is I !" was the cordial exclamation of Lamia* 

"You had better prove your feelings in a more 
practical manner by showing your mistress up to 
her room," said prompt Miss Grip. 

"Come on, Miss GloM" said the unceremonious 

"Yes, indeed, Lamia, I do wish to lay off my 
wraps. I have been wearing them so long," re 
sponded the young lady, as she followed her maid 
up the broad staircase to the large southeast room 
overlooking the sea, which had been hers in her 

"Ain t it just lovely, Miss Glo ?" triumphantly 
exclaimed the girl, as she threw open the door and 
displayed the renovated and decorated chamber, 
blooming like a rose in its pink silk and white lace 


curtains, its pink velvet and white satin chairs, and 
its pink and white walls and carpet. 

"Isn t it just lovely, now, Miss Glo ?" repeated 
the pleased niaid. 

"Oh, dear, yes, I suppose it is; but it isn t like 
my dee-ar old room at all ! Not even the fire-place !" 
she sighed, as she turned to the glowing coals on a 
polished steel grate that had replaced the blazing 
hickory logs of the old open chimney that was so 
familiar to her childhood. 

"Why, you don t like it, Miss Glo !" exclaimed 
the girl in surprise and disappointment. 

"Oh, yes, I do; but it is not like home at all! 
Nothing is like home, and I feel as if I had come 
into a strange house, and should never reach home 
again!" sighed the homesick child, as she laid her 
hat on the pretty counterpane of white crochet over 
pink silk. 

"And we took such pains to please you !" said the 
maid, sorrowfully. 

"Poor Lamia ! Well, I am pleased, only I would 
like to have seen my old room once more just as it 
was. Come now and help me to dress. My boxes 
have arrived, I suppose. They were sent by express 
to Leonardtown last week." 

"Oh, yes, Miss, soon as ebber de letter an de keys 
come by mail, us sent daddy wid de wagon to Len- 
nuntown to fetch de boxes home, which dey rove 
safe an soun , an I unpacked dem an put all de 
fings way in de boorers an ward obes." 

"That was right. Just give me the blue cashmere 
suit and the lace that is with it." 

The girl obeyed, and the young lady soon com 
pleted her toilet and went down stairs to join her 
aunt and uncle in the drawing-room. 


Dinner was soon afterward served. 

When that was over, the small party returned to 
the drawing-room, where Colonel de Crespigney 
wished to show his niece the new grand piano that 
he had selected for her. Here was also a music- 
stand supplied with the works of the great masters. 

He opened the piano and led her to it. 

She seated herself and touched the keys, and 
found the instrument to be one of very superior 

She spent the remainder of the evening in play 
ing and singing the favorite airs and songs of her 
uncle. Her voice was a pure, clear soprano, and 
her soul was always in her song. Hence, though 
she might never have achieved a grand success as a 
public singer, she was very effective as a parlor 

At the close of this musical entertainment the 
small party separated and retired to bed. 

And so ended the day of Gloria s return home. 



Something of a cold mistrust, 
Wonderful, and most unjust, 
Something of a surly fear 
Fills my soul when he is near. 


GLORIA did not carry out her intention of going 
to Sandy Isle on the next day to see her old friend, 
Granny Lindsay. 


The weather had changed in the night, and a week 
of steady rain set in. 

The small family were confined to the house, and 
had to find what amusement they could within 

Colonel de Crespigney found occupation and en 
tertainment enough in unpacking his books from 
the boxes in which they had been carefully put 
away to keep them safe from the workmen who 
were in the house, engaged in the work of restora 
tion, during his absence in Europe with his ward. 

Gloria found interesting employment in turning 
over and inspecting the beautiful wardrobe she had 
brought over from London and Paris; and after 
wards in rambling through all the rooms of the 
rejuvenated old house, to which she could scarcely 
become reconciled. 

"Oh, it is all very fine, I dare say, and it was very 
good of the colonel, and I ought to admire it ?ery 
much, but it reminds me of the melancholy old 
ladies I have seen at public places, all painted up 
with rouge and pearl powder. The old house was 
more respectable and even more beautiful and 
artistic in its old aspect." 

Miss de Crespigney engaged herself in prepara 
tions for her departure, for she was going South to 
spend the winter with her brother and sister-in- 
law, and had delayed her departure only to receive 
Colonel de Crespigney and Gloria on their return 
to Promontory Hall. 

By the time that the rainy season came to an end 
and the sun of the Indian summer shone out again, 
Colonel de Crespigney s books were all unpacked, 
catalogued, and restored to their niches in the new 
ly furnished library ; Miss de la Vera s personal ef- 


fects were inspected and arranged, and Miss de 
Crespigney s preparations for her departure were 

"I have reconstructed your household govern 
ment, and trained your servants so well in the seven 
years that I have passed in this house, Marcel, that 
now I think affairs will run quite smoothly in the 
present groove with only the nominal mistress of 
the house that the little countess will make. I 
think, however, that you should take your niece to 
Washington in December, and spend the fashion 
able season there with her, where she may have 
some opportunity of marriage, suitable to her rank 
and wealth," said Miss de Crespigney to the colonel 
in a tete-a-tete she held with him on the day before 
she was to leave the promontory. 

"Gloria is but sixteen. There is time enough five 
years hence to think of marrying her off," replied 
Colonel de Crespigney, wincing, for he was less in 
clined than ever to display his treasure to the 
world ; more disposed than before to keep her all to 

Late in the day, Miss de Crespigney said to the 
young lady: 

"You must make your uncle take you to Wash 
ington for the season, my dear. It is not right that 
you should be buried in your youth in this remote 
and solitary home. You are the Countess de la 
Vera, and should be brought in society suited to 
your rank. My sister-in-law, Madame de Cres 
pigney, will be in Washington this winter. She 
has no unmarried daughters of her own, and I am 
sure she would feel honored to chaperone the Coun 
tess Gloria. Make your uncle take you to Wash 
ington this winter, my dear." 


"Oh, Aunt Agrippiua, I thank you for your kind 
ness in thinking about me so much, and I assure 
you that Marcel would do anything to please me 
without being made to do it ; but really I do want 
to stay home and be quiet this winter. Ever since 
I left school the first of July I have been going 
to places all the time. I am so tired of going to so 
many places and seeing so many things. I don t 
want to go away again for ever so long. I want to 
stay here and see all my dee-ar old friends and live 
the dee-ar old times over again," pleaded Gloria. 

"My child, you can never live the old times over 
again any more than you can go back to your baby 
hood and live that over again. And as for old 
friends, Gloria, you have none." 

"Oh, yes ! there is dee-ar Granny Lindsay and 
David Lindsay !" 

"Not the right sort of friends for the Countess 
de la Vera. But there is all the more reason why 
you should go to Washington. I will speak to my 
nephew again on the subject," said Miss de Cres- 

And she did speak to the colonel that same after 
noon, but without effect. 

No doubt if she had stayed longer she might have 
gained her point. 

"For if a man talk a very long time," &c. 

I have quoted that piece of wisdom already. Miss 
de Crespigney had not "a very long time" to "talk." 
8he was to leave Promontory Hall the next morn 

Her last "official" act that night was to call the 
three servants into the dining-room and give them 


a final lecture on their duties to themselves, to each 
other, and to their master and mistress. 

"And let me impress this fact upon you," she 
said, gravely; "the young lady of this house is not 
a Marylander. She is not even an American. She 
is a Portuguese West Indian, and a countess by 
birth and inheritance. You are not to address her, 
or speak of her, as Miss Glo . I won t have it ! You 
are to speak of her as the Countess Gloria. Remem 
ber that I" 

Then, after some other instructive discourses, the 
old lady distributed some presents among them and 
dismissed the party. 

The next morning Miss de Crespigney left Prom 
ontory Hall in the old family traveling carriage, 
driven by Laban as far as St. Inigoes, where she 
was to meet the stage-coach that was to take her to 

Her directions to the servants in regard to Miss 
de la Vera s Portuguese birth and rank were remem 
bered with simple indignation by the two women, 
Thia and Lamia, who did not know a Portuguese 
from a portemonnaie, or a countess from a counter 

"Call our Miss Glo countess, indeed ! ShaVt do 
no sich fing! Deed, I fink it would be downright 
undespectful to call our young lady countess, as 
nebber had the trouble ob countin de chickens, or 
de ducks, or any fing on de place, all her blessed 
life," exclaimed Phia, wrathfully beating out her 
excitement on the feather pillow of the bed she was 
helping her daughter to make up. 

"What Miss Aggravater means by it, anyways?" 
scornfully inquired Lamia. 


"Contrariness, nuffin else!" replied Thia, giving 
the pillow a portentous whack with her fists. 

And from that time they continued to call the 
golden-haired girl Miss Glo , and nothing else. 

Meanwhile Gloria and her uncle lived together 
da/ after day, and week after week, and never 
seemed to tire of each other, or to desire any other 

She had none of the cares that might have fallen 
on her as the young mistress of the house. 

Phia had been trained by Miss "Aggravater" into 
a model manager, and was quite capable of assum 
ing all the responsibility and discharging all the 
duties of a good housekeeper. 

Thus the young lady, while holding all the au 
thority of the mistress, enjoyed all the freedom of 
a guest. 

Every morning after breakfast she brought her 
little fancy work-basket down into the library, and 
sat in a low chair by the table where her uncle was 
reading or writing. 

She sat very quietly working, as she used in her 
childhood to sit playing. She never disturbed him 
by a word or a movement, being contented only to 
remain near him. 

Yet whatever might be his occupation, of reading 
or of writing, he was sure to share it with her. It 
was in this way : If he happened to be engaged with 
a book, he would read choice selections from his 
author, and then draw her thoughts forth in praise 
or censure of the subject, or its treatment. If he 
were engaged with his pen, he would read to her 
what he had written, and invite her to suggest any 
alteration or improvement that might occur to her 


And he was often amused and sometimes startled 
by the brightness and originality of her thoughts 
and criticisms. 

Sometimes he would pause in his employment 
and sit and silently watch her at her pretty work of 
silk embroidery. At such times, she worked more 
diligently than at others, keeping her eyes fixed 
upon her needle, and never daring to raise them to 
his face. 

If you had asked her why was this? she could 
not haje told you. She did not know herself. She 
only knew, or rather felt, that, at such moments, to 
meet MarcePs eyes made her own eyes sink to the 
floor, and her cheeks to burn with confusion, in 
dignation and misery. 

She hated herself for this unkind emotion, which 
she could neither comprehend nor conquer. 

"Why," she asked of her heart in vain "why 
should I feel so wounded, insulted and offended at 
the steady gaze of dee-ar Marcel, who loves me so 
truly, and whom I love and honor more than any 
other one in the whole world?" 

She could not answer her own question. She only 
felt that she hated herself for entertaining such feel 
ings, and sometimes even hated her dee-ar Marcel 
for inspiring them. 

From some strange intuition she had ceased to 
call him "Marcel, dee-ar," with tender slowness 
drawing out the word into two syllables, and dwell 
ing with pathetic fondness on the first. She called 
him "uncle, dear," with respectful brevity, and 
nothing more. 

On one occasion, while she was sitting at his feet 
in the library, engaged with her flower embroidery 
in colored silks, and not daring to raise her eyes, 


because her burning cheeks and shrinking heart as 
sured her that he had ceased reading and was gaz 
ing steadily upon her, he said, with a touching sad 

"I fear that you are often dull in this lonely 
house, dear child." 

"Oh, no, uncle, never dull," she answered, with 
out raising her eyes. 

"And never weary of a tiresome bookworm like 

"Never, uncle, dear," she answered, kindly, 
touched by the pathos of his tone, but half afraid 
of the pity that she felt for him, lest it should Jead 
her into some vague, ill-understood wrong or woe. 

"Gloria," he said, in a strangely earnest tone. 

"Well, uncle?" she breathed, in fear of she knew 
not what. 

"Look at me, my darling." 

She raised her eyes to his face, but when she met 
his glance she dropped them immediately. 

"Gloria !" 

"What is it, uncle, dear?" 

"I wish you would not call me uncle. I am not 
your uncle, child. Do you not know it?" 

She did not speak or look up, but worked steadily 
on her embroidery, feeling that the atmosphere op 
pressed her so that she could scarcely breathe. 

"Do you not know that I am not your uncle, 
Gloria? Do you not know that I am not the least 
kin to you? Answer me, my darling." 

"Yes, I know it," said the perplexed girl, scarcely 
above her breath. 

"Then you do not love me the less for not being 
your -own uncle?" 

"Oh, no," breathed the girl. 


"While I Ah! my child, I thank Heaven 

every day of my life that I am no blood relation of 
yours," he added earnestly. 

She heard him with a shudder, but made no re- 


"You must not call me uncle any longer, my 
darling. You must call me Marcel/ as you used 
to do. Do you hear me, Gloria? Will you call me 
Marcel, as of old?" 

She felt herself almost suffocating under the pas 
sion of his gaze, but she forced herself to answer, 
though in the lowest tone: 

"I cannot do so now." 

"But why? You used to do so, my dearest. You 
used to call me nothing but Marcel." 

"That was when I was a baby or a child. I 
called you what I heard others call you as chil 
dren will. I knew no better then. I know better 
now," she answered, with a fruitless attempt to 
speak firmly; for her voice sank and almost ex 
pired, as she wished herself a thousand miles from 
her present seat, yet felt that she had no power to 

"But, my dear, you cannot go on calling me uncle, 
for I am not your uncle," he answered, really 
pleased and flattered by the distress that he fatally 
misunderstood, because, in fact, it resembled the 
sweet confusion of the girls who had been "in love" 
with him in his earlier youth. "No, Gloria, you 
must not call me uncle," he repeated. 

"Then I must call you Colonel de Crespigney," 
she replied, without raising her oppressed eyes. 

"Never ! that would be almost as bad as the other. 
No, you must call me Marcel, as you used to do. 


How sweetly the syllables fell, bird-like, bell-like, 
flute-like, from your lips, my darling." 

She made no answer, but wished she had the 
power to rise and go away. 

"Gloria," he said, dropping his voice to the low 
est tone "Gloria, I told you just now that I 
thanked Heaven there was no blood relationship 
between you and me ! Can you divine, my love, why 
I do so thank Heaven that we are of no kin? * 

She trembled, but could not speak or move. 

"Can you hot, my child? Ah! you do! you do!" 
he sighed, seizing both her hands and trying to 
draw her towards him. 

The touch gave her the power she needed. 

"No ! I don t ! I don t know what you mean !" she 
suddenly cried, snatching her hands from his, start 
ing up and rushing out of the room. Nor did she 
stop until she had gained the solitude of her own 
chamber, where she banged to and locked the door, 
and then sank half dead upon her sofa. 

She really did not know, and did not want to 
know, what her guardian meant by his strange 
speech any more than by his strange manner. "She 
understood a horror in his words, but not his 
words." She felt a sudden abhorrence of his per 
son that sent her flying from his presence. 

And now, in the seclusion of her own room, her 
overwrought feelings broke forth in a flood of tears. 

These relieved her, and then she began to ask 
herself the cause of all this excessive emotion. She 
could discover no reasonable cause. Her guardian 
had been as kind, or even kinder, than usual. He 
had only looked at her very intently, and asked her 
if she knew why he thanked Heaven that there was 


no blood relationship between them; and he iiad 
taken her hand in his to draw her nearer to him. 

Now, what was there in all this to turn her sick 
even to faint ness? To fill her with terror and dis 
gust? To make her fling his hands off and rush 
from the room? 

She could not tell. She said to herself that she 
had behaved very rudely, harshly, unkindly ! What 
ever her guardian had meant by his strange be 
havior, he had meant no evil. How could he mean 
evil? No, he had meant none; of that she felt quite 
sure all the time. And yet she had rushed rudely 
away from him, and hurt him who had never meant 
anything other than good to her, and she felt very 
sorry for her own conduct. 

"I am too impulsive. Uncle always told me I 
was too impulsive. Even the mother-superior of 
the Sacred Heart Convent school used to tell me 
that unless I watched and prayed I would some 
day commit some fatal error on an impulse that 
might ruin my life. Yes, I am too impulsive. I 
must learn self-control, and not worry others be 
cause I cannot understand them. I have hurt my 
good uncle, who means me nothing but good, and 
I must try to make amends to him," she said to 

But she called him her "good uncle." and not 
her "dee-ar Marcel," and even in her tender com 
punction she felt a latent misgiving, a vague fear 
of some wrong or woe into which this sweet peni 
tence might lead her. 

"If I only had a mother," she sighed. 

Meanwhile, in the library, Marcel de Crespigney 
held an interview with himself full of bitter self- 
reproach and lamentations. 


"I have alarmed and repelled her by too sudden 
an approach. And yet I thought that six months 
of the close companionship and easy intercourse of 
travel, toegther with the affection and confidence 
she has always shown to me, had prepared the way 
to a nearer and dearer union ! But I have been too 
impatient, too hasty, too importunate. I should 
have approached her gradually, gently. I should 
have remembered that she is not quite like other 
girls. She is very delicate, dainty, refined, sensi 
tive yea, a very mimosa, that shrinks and trem 
bles at a rude breath or touch. I must be patient, 
very patient for weeks, for months, if I hope to win 
her hand." 



"No more ! I ll hear no more ! Begone and leave me !" 
"Not hear me? By my sufferings but you shall !" 


GLORIA remained in her own room until the din 
ner-bell rang. 

Then she arose, hastily arranged her dress, 
glanced into the mirror to be sure that all traces of 
the morning s stormy emotion had passed away 
from her face at least, however it might still trouble 
her spirit or influence her conduct, and finally she 
went down stairs and into the dining-room. 

There she found Colonel de Crespigney, looking 
ever paler than usual. He fixed his large, dark, 
dreamy eyes upon her, not offensively now, but 


with a mournfully appealing gaze, that went to her 
heart, as he gently took her hand and murmured : 

"I am very unhappy, Gloria. I frightened you 
this morning, dear. I do not know how I did it. 
I did not mean to do it ; and I beg your pardon, my 

"Oh, uncle, dear, do not say that. It was I, my 
self, who was so rude and absurd. I do not know 
why I was so. I never meant to be. I hope you 
will forgive me," she answered, speaking from the 
pity of her heart. 

Then with an instantaneous reaction of fear that 
fell like a blow upon her consciousness, she re 
gretted her tenderness, and wished that she had not 
spoken so warmly. 

He ah ! he only heard her gracious words, only 
saw her sweet smile; he could not perceive the 
changing, shrinking spirit. He beamed on her with 
a look that made her shiver, as he drew her hand 
within his arm and led her to the table with old- 
time princely courtesy, and then took his own seat. 

Laban had just placed the soup on the table, and 
now stood behind his master s chair to wait. 

While the servant remained present there was 
no more conversation between the guardian and the 
ward than the etiquette of the dinner hour re 

But when the man had removed the cloth and 
placed the fruits, cake and coffee on the table and 
had left the room, and the uncle and niece were 
alone together, though the feelings of each towards 
the other were of the kindliest nature, yet there fell 
a certain painful constraint on their intercourse, 
such as had never existed in all their past lives, but 


such as could never quite pass away in all their 
future days. 

How was this? 

For weeks Marcel de Crespigney had rendered 
his youthful ward very uneasy by his manner to 
ward her. On that morning he had frightened her 
from her self-possession, and she had rushed from 
him in terror. Later and cooler reflection had con 
vinced her that she had really no actual cause for 
offence or fear. And when he had made his hum 
ble apology, her heart had been so touched that she 
had more than forgiven him, she had spoken ten 
derly to him, and she had taken all the blame upon 
herself. Then, with strange misgivings of wrong 
and woe, she had regretted her graciousness, and 
when he beamed on her with a look of love and joy, 
she had shrunk up into reserve and cautiousness. 

She became possessed of that 

"Surly fear and cold disgust, 
Wonderful and most unjust," 

which she could neither comprehend nor conquer; 
for which she often blamed herself, but which now 
held her tongue-tied and downcast in the presence 
of her guardian. 

He, on his own part, quick to perceive her state, 
felt that he had again lost her confidence and filled 
her with fear; and he also grew reticent in looks 
and speech, and consequently depressed and mourn 

She gave him a cup of coffee, without a word. 

He took it with a silent bow. 

Both were relieved when, at the end of the cere 
mony, they were free to leave the dining-room. 


She WPS the first to rise from the table. He fol 
lowed her, opened the door, and held it until she 
had passed out. 

In the hall Gloria paused with indecision as to 
her next step. 

She had always been accustomed, since her re 
turn home, to go into the drawing-room, sit down 
at the grand piano and play some of Marcel de 
Crespigney s favorite music, and, later in the even 
ing, just before retiring, to sing some of his best- 
loved songs. 

Now she stood for a moment in doubt. Her vague 
uneasiness made her wish for the privacy and safe 
ty of her own chamber. Her benevolence made her 
unwilling to wound her guardian s feelings by any 
such avoidanc of his company. 

Only for a moment she hesitated, and then she 
led the way to the drawing-room, followed by 
Colonel de Crespigney. 

She played and sang for him all the evening, as 
usual, and on bidding him good-night, gave him 
her hand to kiss, as before. 

He merely touched it with his lips, and dropped 
it without a word. 

Gloria went to her room and retired to bed ; but 
it was long before she could compose herself to 
sleep, and when she did so her slumbers were 
troubled with evil dreams that kept her tossing 
and starting all night. 

Only towards morning she slept soundly so 
soundly that she was first awakened by the ringing 
of the breakfast-bell. 

She arose in haste and dressed herself, and went 
down to the breakfast-room, where she found her 
guardian pacing to and fro, waiting for her. 


"Good-morning, uncle, dear," she said, holding 
out her hand. 

" Uncle/ and always uncle, " he sighed, in a 
tone of reproach, as he held her hand and sought 
to meet her eyes. "I am not your uncle. I do not 
like the name. I have told you so, my dear. And 
yet it is uncle, and always uncle. " 

"Yes, it is, and must be uncle, and always 
uncle, and nothing but uncle, from me to you, 
uncle, dear," she answered, persistently, though in 
a trembling tone, keeping her eyes fixed upon the 
floor lest they should encounter his gaze for the 
gaze of those large, dark, dreamy, mournful orbs 
was beginning to have a terror and fascination of 
the serpent or the devil for her. 

"You have not forgiven me yet, Gloria," he an 

"Indeed I have," she replied, moving quickly to 
her place at the head of the table and touching the 
call-bell to bring in Laban with the coffee pot. 

Breakfast passed off very much as the dinner of 
the preceding day had done, in mutual constraint. 

When it was over, and both left the table, Colonel 
de Crespigney passed into the library, where he 
usually spent his mornings. 

It had been Gloria s unvarying custom to follow 
him thither with her needlework and sit sewing in 
her little low chair, while he read or wrote at the 

Now, however, she could not bear to re-enter the 
place of the previous day s terror. She took her 
garden hat and shawl from the hall rack and put 
them on. 

"Where are you going, my dear?" inquired the 


"For a little, solitary walk. I wish to be alone, 
and I need more air and exercise than I can get 
here. The day is so beautiful, too, that I must im 
prove it. There are so few fine days left at this 
season of the year," she answered, as she drew on 
her gloves. 

The colonel hesitated. He would rather have 
joined her; but her emphatic declaration that she 
wished a solitary walk, forbade him to force his un 
welcome company upon her. 

"Good-morning, uncle, dear; I shall return be 
fore lunch," she said, as she left the house. 

He watched her until she closed the front door 
behind her, and then he sighed and turned sadly to 
his study and shut himself in. 

Gloria stood on the new portico above the new 
terrace and looked all over the renovated domain. 
Terrace below terrace, the ground fell from the 
house down to the park wall. Below that, encir 
cling and enclosing the round of the end, arose the 
high, strong, gray sea-wall, shutting out the sight 
of the beach. It was so solid that the only egress 
in that direction was through the little, substantial 
stone boat-house that was built against it, and 
whose strong, iron-bound oak doors, both landward 
and seaward, were kept locked. 

The only means of leaving the promontory was 
by water through the boat-house when the doors 
happened to be unlocked, or by land across the 
Rogue s Neck when the tide was low. 

"Really, now that the sea-wall is rebuilt the place 
is more like a penitentiary than ever," said Gloria 
to herself, as she walked away from the house. 

She wanted to get off the promontory, to take a 
longer walk than she could get within its limits, so 


she resolved to leave it by way of Rogue s Neck 
and indulge in a ramble through the wintry woods 
on the main. 

It was a really splendid day within about a week 
of the Christmas holidays. No snow had fallen yet, 
nor were the trees of that latitude stripped of the 
glorious autumnal regalia. Enough bright leaves 
had fallen to carpet the ground with a carpet more 
brilliant than the looms of Axminster or Brussels 
ever wove; but not enough to be missed from the 
royal robes of the forest. The glorious beauty of 
the autumn woods seen across the water, so at 
tracted the young girl that she walked swiftly on 
towards Rogue s Neck, never thinking whether it 
were high or low tide, only anxious to cross over 
and plunge into the depths of the grand forest. But 
when she came in sight of the Neck she found, to 
her disappointment, that the waves were dashing 
wildly over the whole length and breadth of it. It 
was high tide, and it would be six hours before the 
road would be passable again. 

She turned away and met David, the young 
fisherman, face to face! 

Her disappointment was forgotten in an instant. 
Her eyes danced with joy. Here was some one, at 
least, of whom she was not afraid in whom she 
could perfectly confide who would never terrify, 
humiliate, or in any way wound her. 

"Oh ! David Lindsay, I am so glad to see you !" 
she said, frankly, holding out her hand to him. 

He took it, bowed, and dropped it, all in silence. 

"Oh! David Lindsay, why haven t you come to 
see your old playmate all this time? I have been 
home nearly three months, and you have not been 
to see me once, not once. You promised to come 


the day after my arrival to take me to s?e your 
grandmother. Well, I know it rained that day, 
and for a week afterwards, and you didn t come be 
cause you knew I could not go out in such weather. 
But there has been very fine weather since then, yet 
you have never come to see your old playmate, never 
once and such friends as we used to be! I take 
it very unkind of you, David Lindsay, that I do !" 
she said, with an air of injury that she really felt 

"Miss de la Vera," gravely replied the young 
man, as soon as the cessation of her scolding little 
tongue gave him the chance, "I have been to see 
you many times within the last three months, but 
you have always been denied to me." 

"Eh!" exclaimed Gloria, opening her eyes wide 
with incredulous astonishment. 

"I beg to repeat that I have come many times to 
pay my respects, but have always been denied the 

"Now, who has dared to do that? Who has dared 
to profane my freedom in that manner? David 
Lindsay, I never knew of your coming or I would 
have seen you. Now tell me all about it," she ex 
claimed, her eyes sparkling, and her cheeks burn 
ing with the sense of wrong and outrage, as she 
turned about to continue her walk. He also turned 
and went beside her, as he answered : 

"Miss de la Vera, the morning after your arrival 
home I came up to the hall, not by appointment, 
not to take you to Sandy Isle, for I knew you could 
not go in such a storm, but to ask you to fix another 
day when I might have the honor of serving you. 
I was met by Colonel de Crespigney, to whom I 
made known my errand. He told me that the 
weather would not permit Miss de la Vera to go out 


that day, nor was it likely that it would be any more 
favorable for a week to come, and when, in fact, it 
should be so, and when his ward should desire to 
make a visit, he would himself escort her. His man 
ner told me that my visit was uncalled for, unwel 
come, and improper. I bowed very low, and left 

"He never told me that you had been here. I 
blamed you for neglect. And it is all his fault. Oh ! 
I am glad I met you, David Lindsay ! Tell me more! 
You came again?" 

"Yes, many times, Miss de la Vera, but I was al 
ways met by Colonel de Crespigney, who told me 
that you were occupied and could not see me." 

"But in the first place, you must have seen one 
of the servants. Did you then ask for me, or for 
the colonel?" 

"For you, Miss de la Vera. I always asked the 
servant I happened to see to take my respectful 
message to yourself, that I waited on you, accord 
ing to your orders. And always Colonel de Cres 
pigney came out and told me that you were engaged, 
or words to the same effect, and so dismissed me, 
showing by his manner that he considered my call 
impertinent. Yet, as he did not actually forbid me 
to come again, and as I considered that I was acting 
under your orders, I continued to come once or 
twice a week. I was on my way to the house when 
we met." 

"Oh!" burst forth Gloria, with one of her irre 
pressible impulses. "I think it was most outrageous 
for any one to interfere with my liberty of action in 
that way! I will never submit to such control! 
Never! It was the farthest thing from my dear 
father s thoughts that my will should be so ham- 


pered ! He made every provision for my freedom 
and happiness!" 

"Miss de la Vera," said the young man, speaking 
conscientiously and generously, "I think your 
guardian acted for the best. He had the right to 
deny any visitor to you whom he disapproved of 
for any reason. My grandmother said so when I 
told her of my failure. And she always said, be 
sides, that Colonel de Crespigney was the most in 
dulgent guardian that she ever heard of, and that 
you had more freedom, even when a child, than any 
young lady she ever knew, having your own way 
in almost everything. And you know my old grand 
mother is a wise and good woman." 

"Yes, I know she is, and I honor her, and I love 
her dearly, and that is the reason why I wanted so 
much to go to see her, and asked you to come and 
row me over in the boat. And to think you came 
so often and I did not know it. Oh-h !" 

"Perhaps I ought not to have persisted in coming. 
Perhaps I ought to have taken a hint from the 
colonel s manner, and stayed away after my first 
repulse," said the young fisherman. 

"No, you ought not, David Lindsay. You ought 
to have minded me rather than him !" said the little 

"Then I ought not to have told you of my re 
peated rebuffs to stir up angry feelings in your 

"Now, how could you help it with such a cate- 
chiser as I am? You could not tell a falsehood by 
saying that you had not been there, and you could 
not act a falsehood by keeping silence." 

"True; but I beg you to be just to your guardian, 
Miss de la Vera." 


"Oh, David Lindsay, do you be just to yourself. 
Is your boat here?" 

"Yes, Miss. It is near this end of the Neck. I 
cannot land at the old fishing landing now, because 
of the new sea-wall and the locked boat-house block 
ing off all from the beach in that direction." 

"I understand. The place is more like a prison 
than ever. Well, David Lindsay, please to walk 
up with me to the house. I have a parcel there for 
Granny Lindsay which I want you to help me carry 
to the boat ; for I am going to Sandy Isle to see her 
this morning/ said the young lady, in a tone of de 
cision that admitted of no reply. 

So the young fisherman walked obediently by her 
side until they reached the hall. 

Gloria opened the front door, which, in that safe 
seclusion, was never locked in the daytime, and in 
vited the young man to follow her in. 

"Sit here in the hall, David Lindsay, while I run 
up to my room and get my parcel/ she said, point 
ing to a chair. 

At that moment the study door opened on the 
right, and Colonel de Crespigney came out and 
looked about as if to see what was the matter. Of 
course, his eyes fell at once upon the form of the 
young fisherman just seated in the chair. 

"David Lindsay is here, at my request, to take 
me to Sandy Isle to see Dame Lindsay," said Gloria, 
pausing, with her hand upon the lowest post of the 
banisters, and her foot upon the lowest step of the 

"Oh !" replied the colonel, not very graciously, 
as he looked slowly from the girl to the young 

Gloria paused as if inviting or defying him to 


any controversy on the subject; but lie never said 
another word, and after a minute s delay went back 
into his study and shut the door. 

Gloria flew up stairs to her chamber, and in a 
few moments came down with two parcels in her 

"I have made my bundle into two, you see; one 
for you to carry and one for me," she said, as she 
handed him the larger one; and perhaps she could 
not have explained, even to herself, the subtle deli 
cacy of feeling that induced her to do this, so as 
not to seem to treat her old playmate as a servant 
or a porter, to carry all her luggage. 

David wished to take both, but her peremptory 
decision prevented him. 

Just as they were starting to go. Colonel de Cres- 
pigney emerged from his study, cloaked and gloved. 
He took his hat from the rack, saying pleasantly : 

"I hope you will permit me to make a third in 
this party, my dear. I should like to go." 

Gloria was dumfounded with astonishment. 
Besides, what could she say in opposition to so 
reasonable a proposal? She could say nothing. 

The three walked out together, Colonel de Cres- 
pigney taking the little parcel from his ward s hand 
and carrying it himself. 

She made no objection to this. She rather liked 
it, because David Lindsay was also carrying a 

"What are the contents of these parcels, if I may 
inquire, my dear?" asked her guardian. 

"Presents for my dee-ar Granny Lindsay that I 
brought all the way from Edinboro , but have not 
had the opportunity of taking to her before, be 
cause David Lindsay, whom I requested to come 


and row me over to the isle, was always denied me 
when he came to the house," answered Gloria, ruth 

"Ah !" said her guardian ; but he offered no ex 

David led the way to his boat, and assisted the 
lady and gentleman to enter it. He made them 
comfortable on the seats, and then taking both oars, 
rowed vigorously and rapidly for the little sand 

In a very few moments they touched the beach, 
and the young boatman secured the boat and as 
sisted the passengers to land. 

"Now," said Gloria, addressing her two com 
panions, as her queenly eyes traveled slowly from 
one to the other, "you two will please to bring my 
bundles as far as the door of the house, but no far 
ther. I want you, if you please, then to return to 
the boat and wait for me; for I want my dee-ar 
Granny Lindsay all to myself to-day." 

"Very well, little despot; you shall be obeyed," 
said Colonel de Crespigriey, answering for both, 
as they led the way to the dame s cottage, followed 
by the young girl. 

The day was cold, though clear, so the cottage 
door was closed. 

"Here, now, leave the bundles, and go your way. 
I will join you in the boat, in half an hour," said 

Her two servants set down their burdens where 
they were told to put them, and went where they 
were ordered to go. 

Gloria watched them not out of sight, for that 
she could not, on the tiny islet, where, from the 
rocky centre to the sandy circumference, everything 


was distinctly visible; but she watched them go 
down to the beach and begin to walk around it, 
before she knocked at the cottage door. 

"I wonder if uncle will say anything to David 
Lindsay? I hope he will not, for it was I who 
brought him to the house this time," she said to her 
self, as she knocked again, for her first summons 
had not been answered. Now, however, the door 
opened, and Dame Lindsay appeared, smiling 
kindly, as of old, though looking rather feebler 
and more infirm than Gloria had ever seen her. 

"Ah, young lady, is it eeself at last come to see 
the old ornan? I knew ? ee would sooner or later! 
Come in, dearie. Eh! then, what is all this? and 
where is David, that he has not brought them for 
>ee?" she said, on espying the parcels. 

"Oh, Granny Lindsay, he did bring them for me, 
he and uncle; but I would not let them stop. I 
sent them back to the boat, because I wanted to 
have you all to myself," said Gloria, as she picked 
up one bundle, while the old woman took the other, 
and they entered the house together. 

"Now sit ? ee down, and take off ee things, 
dearie," said the dame, as she placed a chair. 

"I will sit down, dear Granny Lindsay, but not 
take off my hat this time, because uncle would 
come, and his doing so has prevented me from 
spending the day with you as I wished so much 
to do; for, oh ! I remember what happy, happy days 
I used to have here with you and David! And 
nothing is changed here! Nothing, nothing! The 
very chest of drawers and table and chairs sit in 
the very places where they used to sit in the sweet 
old time." 

"Why, dearie, everything sits where it must sit. 

154. GLORIA 

In a room like this everything is put into the place 
where it fits best, and there it has to stay. There 
is no room for alterations, dearie." 

"Well, I like to see it as it used to be. Now, 
dear Granny Lindsay, I must tell you that I wanted 
to come to see you the day after my arrival home; 
but it was raining that day and for a week after 
wards, and when it cleared off and David Lindsay 
so kindly came to fetch me, he was told that I was 
engaged. Well, I might have been doing some 
thing, and probably was, but it was nothing that I 
would not have willingly dropped for the sake of 
coming to see you, if I had only been told that 
David Lindsay had come for me; but I was not 
told I was never told. I should never have known 
if I had not met him by chance this morning." 

"I know, I know, dearie, David told me. It was 
ee good guardian s prudence, dearie, as I explained 
to David. Ee must mind ? ee guardian, dearie, and 
be guided and governed by him until ? ee comes 
of a proper age, little lady, and all the more must 
ee submit eeself to him who stands in a father s 
place, because ? ee has no mother, dearie," said the 
dame, speaking conscientiously and affectionately. 

"Ah," thought the poor girl, "if she knew how 
he frightens and distresses me, she would not say 
that! I wonder if I could tell her? No, because 
I could not explain ! How could I explain? There 
is nothing to explain." 

With a sigh Gloria turned from her perplexed 
thoughts to the pleasant task before her. 

She lifted both bundles from the floor to the 
table. She untied and opened one, and displayed a 
large double shawl of a fine black and white check, 
saying : 


"Now dee-ar Granny Lindsay, I know you love 
old Scotland, where your forefathers came from, 
and you would like any good thing that came from 
Scotland. Now, I brought this from Edinboro for 

"Did ? ee, dearie? How beautiful it is! How 
lovely and soft, and large, and warm it is! How 
kind and thoughtful it was of ee to bring it to 
the old woman! But that is nothing new. 7 Ee 
was always good, my dearie. Now, I ll tell ee 
how much I needed just such a shawl. My old 
gray woolen one is worn quite thin and threadbare. 
So ee sees how much good ee has done me, dearie." 

"Oh, Granny Lindsay, I feel so grateful to you 
for liking it so much. And look here oh, I hope 
you will like these, too!" said the young girl, as 
she unrolled the other bundle and displayed a dress 
of shepherd s cloth of a deep blue shade 3 and two 
woven underskirts of thick red flannel. 

"Oh, dearie! What can I say to ee now for all 
ee gracious gifts? What? The old woman is al 
most dumb-struck, dearie, but her heart is full," 
said the dame, in a voice very low, and trembling 
with the emotion that filled her aged eyes with 

"Do you like them? Will they make you more 
comfortable? Oh, I am so glad!" 

"And here is something I got for David Lind 
say. It is only a dozen Scotch pocket-handker 
chiefs; but I have worked his name in the corners 
with my hair. Will you give them to him from 
his old playmate?" 

"Yes, dearie, surely, if ee wishes it," replied the 
dame, in a subdued and broken voice, for she could 
now refuse nothing to the affectionate girl who had 


remembered her, even in a foreign country, and 
brought home comforts for her age. 

"And now, dee-ar Granny Lindsay, I must leave 
you. My half hour is up." 

"I wish ee could stay all day, dearie." 

"So do I ; I meant to stay, but but my guardian 
came with me and spoiled all my plans." 

" 7 Ee gardeen means ? ee well, dearie. Ee mustn t 
rebel against his just authority." 

"Good-by, dee-ar Granny Lindsay." 

"Good-by, since >ee must go. The good Lord keep 
? ee, dearie." 

And so Gloria left the cottage, and walked 
rapidly down to the boat, where she found her 
guardian and the young fisherman waiting for her. 

She entered and seated herself in the stern. 

David Lindsay took up the oars and rowed 
quickly to the boat-house, which they reached in a 
few minutes. 

Colonel de Crespigney handed his ward to the 
steps, and with a cool "Thanks. Good-day," to 
the young boatman, led her up the stairs and 
through to the other side of the wall. 

"I wish, uncle dear, that you would leave the key 
in the lock always. It makes the place feel like 
a prison to have the boat-house, which is the only 
gateway and passage through the sea-wall, locked 
up all the time." 

"I will do anything you wish, my dear Gloria. 
You have only to make your will known and it 
shall be obeyed," replied the colonel. 

"I thank you, dear uncle. And since you are so 
kind, will you give orders that in future, whenever 
David Lindsay comes to take me to see my dee-ar 
old friend on the islet, I may promptly be informed 


of his presence? inquired Gloria, with, a grave 
earnestness that was more like a gracious command 
than a request. 

"My dearest, yes ! even that, if you make a point 
of it." 

"I do make a point of it." 

"I sent the young man away, I should explain, 
because I wished you quietly rid of him." 

"Kid of David Lindsay, uncle ! Why should I bo 
rid of him?" 

"Gloria, I appreciate your need of a mother s 
guidance; but is it possible that you have no in 
tuitions to direct you?" gravely and sadly inquired 
the colonel. 

"If by intuitions, uncle, you mean inward teach 
ings, yes. I have them ; they are, perhaps, the best, 
if not the only instructions I have ; and from them. 
I learn to understand, respect, and trust him 
David Lindsay more than I can any other human 
being, except, perhaps, his grandmother and 

"His grandmother and myself! Thank you, my 
dear," said the colonel, wincing. 

Gloria laughed. She very seldom laughed, but 
when she did the silver cadence of her laughter 
was like the shiver of silver bells, a delight to hear. 

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "I beg your pardon, uncle! 
I should have said the Emperor Napoleon and your 
self ; only, unfortunately, I am not intimate enough 
with his imperial majesty to know whether I re 
spect him or not." 

"Nonsense, Gloria. Be serious, my child. You 
may respect this young man, who has grown up on 
the estate; you may understand and respect him 
in his proper place, as much as you please; but if 


you make a companion of Mm, who is to under 
stand you? not to ask, who is to respect you, my 

"Uncle!" exclaimed Gloria, flushing to the very 
edges of her radiant hair. "Uncle! Is it making 
a companion of David Lindsay to have him row me 
in a boat where I wish to go?" 

"Yes, Gloria, decidedly so, when the boat is his 
own and he takes you to his own home." 

"How dreadfully you put the case, uncle!" ex 
claimed the girl, crimson with humiliation. 

"I put it truly, dear Gloria," answered the 
colonel, pursuing his advantage unsparingly. "I 
put it truly. You will injure yourself irreparably 
by such eccentric unconventionality. My poor 
child, it is your mother who should instruct you 
in all these matters, not a profane heathen of a 
man; only unfortunately you have no mother, and 
so you must even be guided by so poor a counsellor 
as myself." 

"I do not see what harm can come of my going 
to see Dame Lindsay in her grandson s boat." 

"No, you do not see; but others will, my child, 
and they will criticise you. Objectionable attach 
ments have been formed and improper marriages 
contracted before now between ladies of rank and 
men of low degree, and you " 

"Sir! I PROTEST against this talk!" she indig 
nantly interrupted. "To whom do your remarks 
point? To me? To David Lindsay? Do you dare 
to suppose, Colonel de Crespigney, that I should 
ever dream that he would ever think of oh ! what 
an odious thought is in your mind ! Never do you 
dare, sir, to hint such a thing to me again !" 


"I hope never to have the occasion, my dear," 
coolly replied the colonel. 

"Detestable, revolting, abhorrent, odions! Oh! 
that you should dare to hint such a humiliation 
to me! I can never forgive you for it, Colonel de 
Crespigney! I feel more, much more than of 
fended! I feel insulted, dishonored, humiliated! 
I do !" cried Gloria, vehemently. 

But in all her indignation there was no scorn of 
David Lindsay, or of his humble calling; for in 
her innocent and loyal way she loved and respected 
her old playmate, even as she did his aged relative 
on the islet. It was the hypothesis of "an objec 
tionable attachment" and "an improper marriage" 
at which she revolted. And if, instead of a poor, 
uncultivated young fisherman, the most accom 
plished prince on earth had been in question, she 
would have felt equally offended. 

They had now reached the steps leading up to 
the portico of the front door. 

Colonel de Crespigney paused there, and with 
his hand resting on one of the iron posts, he in 
quired : 

"Well, shall I give the orders you requested me 
to issue? Shall I say that the young fisherman 
must be admitted to your presence whenever he 
may come here and ask to see you?" 

"No! On your soul!" impetuously answered the 
girl. "No ! You have killed David Lindsay ! You 
have murdered the harmless playmate of my happy 
childhood ! I shall never, never see him more ! He 
is dead and buried !" 

" Requiescat in pace replied the colonel 
solemnly, lifting his hat. 


Gloria passed him, opened the front door, and 
fled up into the safety of her room. 

Her "intuitions" warned the motherless child to 
avoid a tete-d-tdte with Colonel de Crespigney. 



He deemed that time, he deemed that pride 
Had quenched, at length, his boyish flame, 

Nor knew, till seated by her side, 
His heart in all save hope the same. 


MEANWHILE David Lindsay had returned to his 
grandmother s cottage, his soul filled with the im 
age of the lovely girl he had just landed on the 

"I shall go mad if it continues much longer, he 
groaned. "Yes, it will craze me! If I could only 
escape and fly to new places and scenes that would 
not remind me of her so constantly, so bitterly! 
But I cannot leave my grandmother, who has no 
one but me. I must stay, though I am bound to the 
rack. I must see my angel and not open my lips 
in adoration ! I must suffer and not utter a cry ! 
Why, it would insult her to tell her I love her ! And 
yet in our innocent childhood she has set by me 
hours reading out of the same books. She kindled 
a soul under the poor fisher lad s rough bosom ! a 
soul to love and to suffer the anguish of a lost 
Heaven in the loss of her. Oh, my little angel, did 


you know what you were doing? Oh, my little angel, 
my little angel, who am I that I should dare to love 
you? A poor, rude fisherman, to whom you came 
as a messenger from heaven to inspire him with in 
telligent life, with a soul to love and suffer. Oh! 
my darling, you fill my life! You are my life! I 
see your bright face shining in the darkness of my 
room at night. I hear your sweet voice ringing in 
the silence! What shall I do? Ah, Heaven, what 
shall I do? If I could ship on one of these schoon 
ers that touch here sometimes, and if I could go to 
new scenes where I should never meet her again, I 
might conquer this madness. But that is impossi 
ble at present. I must not fly from duty. I must 
stay here and meet whatever fate may have in store 
for me, and that is insanity or death, I think. Oh ! 
I fear, I fear that I shall go mad some day, and in 
my madness tell her how I love her! And then 
the deluge!" 

So absorbed was the poor lad s soul in his love 
and his woe, that it was a purely mechanical and 
unconscious work to row back to the islet, secure 
his boat, and walk up to the cot. 

He did not "come to himself" until he had run 
his head against the door. 

His grandmother opened it, smiled, and said: 

"Come in, David, and see what the little lady has 
left here for me and for you." 

He started and entered the cottage. 

Fortunately for him, the dim eyes of age did not 
perceive his strong emotion. 

"Sit ee down, David, and look. Here are two 
ribbed flannel petticoats, such as couldn t be got in 
this country for love nor money. And here is a navy 
blue shepherd s cloth, and a fine large double plaid 


shawl. Look at em, David, lad! But Lor , men 
don t know anything about women s wear. Well, 
then, look ? ee here. Here is your present, David 
a dozen lovely, large, fine white linen handkerchiefs, 
every one of them marked with your full name by 
her own hand, and with her own golden hair, David 
with the child s own golden hair." 

"Give them to me !" cried the young man, eagerly 
catching the parcel from her hand, looking around 
like some wild animal, with prey that he feared 
would be snatched from him, and then running up 
the narrow stairs that led to his own loft. 

"What s come to the poor lad?" cried the old 
woman, gazing after him. "The Lord defend him 
from being taken with love!" 

Meantime David Lindsay had scrambled up into 
his own little den. 

It was a poor place, with only a leaning roof meet 
ing in a peak overhead, with hardly room enough 
to stand upright, with bare walls, bare floor, and 
only oDe small window of four panes in front, which 
opened on hinges. 

It contained a rude but clean bed, covered with 
a blue and white patchwork quilt, and one chest 
that stood under the front window, and one shelf, 
on which stood Gloria s precious books. He sat 
down on the chest, for there was no other seat, and 
opened his parcel of handkerchiefs, and examined 
them one by one. He saw his own name on each, 
worked in minute golden letters, formed of Gloria s 
own radiant hair. He pressed each to his lips, to 
his heart. 

"Oh, more precious than all the treasures of 
Hindostan s mines are these to me," he murmured 
"her own sacred hair, her own hallowed hands 


work ! Oh, my angel, my augel, no word suits you 
but this angel. I have this much of you, at least, 
and I will never part with it while I live while I 
live and then, afterwards, beyond this world, may 
there not be some realms of bliss where we may 
meet, as we met in guileless childhood and love, 
without a thought of any barrier of rank between 

This, and much more, murmured the young man 
to himself, as he pressed the handkerchiefs to his 
heart, his lips and burning forehead. 

But the voice of his aged relative recalled him 
to his duty. With fond superstition he folded one 
handkerchief and put it in his bosom, with her 
bright hair next his heart. The others he folded 
carefully and put in his chest. Then he went below 
to hew wood and fetch water for the needs of the 
little home. 

Gloria did not meet her uncle until the dinner 
hour, when her short, impulsive resentment melted 
away before the mournful, even meek, reserve of his 

After dinner she went into the drawing-room, sat 
down at the piano, and played for him us usual, 
until the hour of retiring. 

The next morning, after their breakfast, as she 
turned to go up stairs, he called to her : 

"Gloria, my dear, will you not come into the li 
brary and sit with me, as usual?" 

"No, thanks, uncle dear. I have a letter to write 
to Aunt Agrippina." 

"Can you not write it at one of the library 

"I would rather go up into my room, uncle." 

"But why?" 


"Because well I would rather." 

"Are you afraid of ine, Gloria?" he inquired, very 

She hesitated for a moment, and then answered, 
firmly : 

"Yes, I am." 

"But why should you be?" 

"I don t know," she answered. 

"Then that is a most unjust and unreasonable 
fear of yours, for which you can assign no cause, my 

She looked down and made no answer. 

"Do you not yourself think so, Gloria?" 

"Yes, no ; I don t know. Let me go up stairs now, 
please, uncle," she said, in growing distress. 

"I do not hinder you, my child. You are as free 
as air. Go," he said. 

Eelieved to be free, she ran up stairs ; but happen 
ing to look down as she turned around on the land 
ing, she saw him standing still, looking so lonely 
and miserable that her heart reproached her for 
selfishness, if not for cruelty. She paused and hesi 
tated for a moment and then ran down again and 

"Uncle dear, if you want me, I will come in and 
sit with you. Of course I can write my letter just 
as well on the library table. Do you want me?" 

"My child, I always want you. Every moment of 
my life I want you," he answered in a low tone as 
he opened the library for her to enter. 

She had a little rosewood writing-desk of her own 
on one of the tables. 

He went and opened it for her and placed a chair 
before it. 

As soon as she had seated herself he went and sat 


down at his own reading stand and assumed an air 
of melancholy reserve that he knew would touch 
her heart and calm her fears. 

"I must be very patient and very cautious in deal 
ing with my dear, my birdling, if I would ever win 
her to my bosom," he said to himself. 

And from that day for many days he was very 
guarded in his manner to his sensitive ward, main 
taining always a mournfully affectionate yet some 
what reserved demeanor. 

Gloria was not quite reassured. Her confidence, 
once so rudely shaken, could not be quite firmly 
re-established. She continued to decline a tete-a- 
tete with him whenever she could do so without 
rudeness or unkindness. She walked out more than 
usual. The weather continued to be very fine for 
the season. 

Christmas Eve was a most glorious day. There 
was not a cloud in all the sky. The sun shone down 
with dazzling splendor from the deep blue heavens. 
The ripples of the sea flashed and sparkled like 
liquid sapphires. The woods on the main glowed 
in the light. 

The scene was too tempting. 

Gloria put on her fur jacket and hood and walked 
forth to the "Neck." 

She found the tide at its lowest ebb and the road 
to the main high and dry. 

She set oft to walk across it. It was the first 
time she had ever done so. The "Neck," indeed, was 
a natural bridge of rock connecting the promontory 
to the main and affording an excellent roadway 
when the tide was low, but quite impassable, being 
at least six feet under water when the tide was high. 

It was very low now and the path was very clear. 


Gloria walked on, so inspired by the glory and 
gladness of the sun, the sky, the sea, the woods that 
her spirits soared like a bird, and, like a bird, broke 
forth in song. 

She sang as she walked. The way was long but 
joyous with light and beauty, even though the sea 
son was near mid-winter. 

At length she reached the main and bent her step 
to the gorgeous woods, still wearing their regal 
autumn dress. 

Gloria plunged into their depths and rambled 
and reveled in their delightful solitudes. The song 
birds had flown farther south, yet the air seemed 
full of jubilant music. Was it in the air or in her 
own spirit? She could not tell. She was so gay 
and glad ! She wandered on and on, tempted by 
vistas of crimson, golden, and purple avenues, more 
graceful in form than classic arches. 

At length she spied, at some distance off, in the 
deepest depths of the forest, a scene like a confla 
gration a cluster of trees burning, glowing and 
sparkling like fire in the rays of the sun that struck 
down upon their tops. 

Fascinated by the vision, she made her way to 
ward it, and found a clump of holly trees, thick with 
bright scarlet berries. 

"Oh, I must have some of these to decorate the 
house to-night," she said, as she began to pull those 
that were in her reach. But when she had plucked 
all that hung low, she found that she had not 
enough for her purpose. 

"I cannot get any more, so I had better take 
these home and come back again and bring Laban 


to climb the trees for me, and get enough from the 
top branches." 

With this resolve she turned and retraced her 
steps, but soon lost herself in the pathless woods, 
and wandered about for hours trying to find her 
way out of them. She had no fear whatever. She 
was sure that she should emerge safely some time 
or other. She only felt some little haste to get home 
time enough to bring Laban back for the holly. 

At length her confidence was justified. She 
caught a glimpse of the sea through a thinner 
growth of the woods, and, walking toward it, soon 
came out on the bank above the "Neck." She de 
scended quickly, and began to cross. 

No one in that neighborhood would have ven 
tured to go over the "Neck" at such a time. It was 
in pure ignorance that Gloria did it. 

She did not even notice how much the Neck 
had narrowed since she crossed it four hours before, 
when the tide was at its lowest ebb, and was even 
then turning. It had been coming in ever since, 
and now there was but about four feet width of 
the road left in the middle of the Neck abundant 
space for a foot-path if it should not narrow too 

Gloria had not a thought of danger when she set 
out to recross the Neck. 

She walked on, singing as she went, and if a wave 
higher than usual dashed quite across her path, 
why, it fell back immediately, only wetting her 
shoes and skirts a little. 

She went on, singing, while the glad waves 
danced up each side her road, coming nearer and 
nearer, narrowing her path. 

Still she went on. singing, having to stop some* 


times when her path would be entirely covered by a 
rising wave, and wait till it had fallen back. 

Then again she went on, singing, ever singing, 
until she reached a spot about midway between the 
main and the promontory, when a wave, higher and 
stronger than before, struck her, staggered her, and 
nearly threw her down. Then for a moment she 
quailed, and ceased to sing. But the next instant 
the wave had receded and left a narrow path clear 
before her. 

Then she hurried on again, not singing now, but 
with an awful consciousness of danger upon her; 
an awful prevision of the world beyond this, which 
her spirit might reach before her body should touch 
the shore. 

Another higher, stronger wave came rising and 
roaring, and struck her down. It receded instantly, 
and she struggled to her feet, half stunned, stran 
gled, and blinded. 

Soon the path was entirely under water, and she 
had to wade in half knee-deep, and with that pre 
vision, awful, holy, sweet, of being on the threshold 
of the other life. 

"Mother, mother, if I must go, if I must go, come 
and meet me. I m afraid, oh, Fm afraid of the 
great dark !" was her mute prayer, as another grand 
wave, howling like some furious beast of prey, 
reared itself above and threw her down. 

Once more, as it fell back howling, she struggled 
up to her feet, more stunned, strangled, blinded, 
and dazed than before, and toiling for dear life, 
waded on knee-deep in water. Her limbs were fail 
ing, her head was dizzy, her senses were leaving 

"I must go I am going. Oh, Lord Jesus ! Thou 


who art the Resurrection and the Life/ raise me! 
save me !" she breathed, in a strange half trance, in 
which she saw the heavens opened. 

And at that moment the last wave struck her 
down, seized her and whirled her away. 



Will she again, 
From that death-like repose, 
When those sealed eyes unclose, 
Awake to pain? ANON. 

IT was late in the afternoon of the same day that 
saw Gloria de la Vera swept away by the tide. 

In the cosy cottage on the sandy islet, old Dame 
Lindsay sat over the bright, open w r ood fire, knit 
ting busily ; the tea-kettle hung over the blaze, sing 
ing merrily; the covered "spider" sat upon the 
hearth, emitting a spicy odor of baking ginger 
bread; the black "pussy" was coiled up in one cor 
ner, and the white puppy in the other. 

The tea-table stood in the middle of the floor, set 
for two persons, gay with the best cups and saucers 
on the bright japanned waiter, and tempting with 
plates full of delicately sliced ham and cold bread, 
and a pretty print of fresh butter. 

Dame Lindsay at length rolled up her knitting 
and laid it aside on the mantel -shelf ; took off her 
spectacles and put them in their case, and that into 


her pocket, then picked up the little iron tongs and 
lifted the lid from the spider to examine the prog 
ress of her cakes, found them doing well, and cov 
ered them again. 

Finally she went to the window and looked out 
across the sea to the shore where the wooded hills 
rolled backward to the western horizon, behind 
which the setting sun was dropping out of sight. 

"Well, now, I do wonder what can keep David? 
He promised to be back before sunset, and he never 
broke a promise nor missed an appointment before," 
she said, as she held one hand above her eyes and 
scanned the track of waters between the main shore 
and the little landing-place on the islet. 

She watched until the sun had set, the faint after 
glow had faded from the sky and sea, and the short 
winter twilight of the shortest days had darkened 
into night. 

"Something has happened. I trust in the Lord 
it is nothing ill," she said, as she left the window 
and went to the fireplace, and lighted the two home- 
dipped tallow candles that stood on the mantel 

She did not pull down the blue window blind; 
she left it up, saying to herself : 

"He shall see the light of home to cheer him 
across the dark sea, poor lad." 

She had scarcely said so much when the sound of 
hurrying footsteps smote her ears, and before she 
had time to cross the room, the door was violently 
pushed open, and David Lindsay strode into the 
house, bareheaded, with disordered liuir, haggard 
face and starting eyes; wearing nothing but a wet 
and frozen shirt and trowsers, and bearing in his 


arms a girl s lifeless form, wrapped closely in his 
own great-coat. 

"Gloria is dead ! She is dead ! I saw her drowned 
before my eyes! I saw her drowned before I could 
reach her! My darling! My darling! My angel! 
Oh, my little angel !" he groaned, as he bore her to 
the bed, laid her on it and dropped on his knees, 
burying his head beside her. 

"Father of mercies! how did it happen?" cried 
the old dame, clasping her hands in anguish, as she 
came up. 

"Oh, don t ask me now ! Try to recover her, try I 
Oh, she must not! shall not die!" exclaimed the 
young man, starting like a maniac from his kneel 
ing posture, and staring around him with a wild 
manner, half prayerful, half defiant, wholly insane. 

"Yes, we must try! We must never give up," 
quickly replied Dame Lindsay, who in her long life 
as a fisherman s daughter, wife and mother, had 
had varied experience in drowned persons, resusci 
tated or buried. 

And fast as age and infirmities would permit, she 
scrambled up the narrow stairs that led to the loft 
and quickly drew the blankets and mattress from 
David s bed and rolled them down to the room be 

Then she followed them in their descent, and 
straightened the mattress on the floor, and laid the 
blankets over it. 

"Now lift her up, and lay her here, David, and 
then leave the room. I must take off her wet 
clothes, wind her in a warm blanket, and roll her. 
That I must do without your help," said the a ame, 
with a calm authority that would have compelled 
obedience from any one. 


But the young uian indeed was so stupefied and 
distracted by anguish and despair, that he was more 
than willing to be led or driven. 

Moaning and groaning in bitterest woe, he lifted 
the lifeless form and laid it on its right side on the 
blanket over the mattress on the floor, and then 
went up stairs and threw himself down near the 
landing to pray with all his soul for her revival, 
and to listen with all his senses for any murmur 
of her returning life that might reach him there. 

Meanwhile the dame rolled the drowned girl over 
on her face, with her wrist bent under her forehead 
to raise it, and then leaving her so for a moment, 
went and hung a large blanket over several chairs 
before the fire. Then she removed the wet raiment 
from the victim, and laid down the hot blanket, and 
rolled her over and wrapped her in it, and rolled 
and rubbed until some good results began to appear, 
and her own strength to wane. 

Then she called to the anxious watcher above: 

"Come down, David, and help me now. There is 
hope, my lad. There is hope! 7 

"Oh, thank the Lord ! Thank the Lord ! From 
this time forth I will live to the Lord !" exclaimed 
the young man in an earnest outburst of gratitude, 
too deep for gladness, as he hurried down the 

"Ah ! my boy, I said there was hope, not certain 
ty," sighed the dame. 

"If there is hope, there is certainty. If the Lord 
is not mocked/ neither does he mock his children. 
I have prayed, oh! how I have prayed! And the 
answer is, there is hope! So there is certainty!" 
exclaimed David Lindsay, as he dropped on his 


knees before the prostrate form that lay wound in 
the blanket on the mattress. 

"You know what to do, David. Lay your hand 
between her shoulders and continue to move her 
gently to and fro, if you wish to save her life. 
When I get the bed ready we will lay her in it," said 
the old woman, as she spread more blankets to heat 
before the fire. 

When they were ready she put one over the bot 
tom sheet in the bed, and called her grandson to 
lift the precious burden just as it was and lay it 

When he had obeyed her, she spread another 
warm blanket over the form, which now began to 
quiver slightly as from pain. 

"She lives! Oh, thank Heaven, she does live!" 
cried David. 

"Easy, lad! Easy! There is more hope, but no 
certainty yet. I could not feel any pulse, as I held 
her wrist just now," said Dame Lindsay, cautiously. 

In mad haste, David thrust his hand amid the 
wrappings and found and felt the delicate wrist. 

"It beats ! It beats ! Her pulse does beat ! I can 
scarcely feel it, it is so small but it beats!" he 

"I hope it may be so," said the dame, who had 
taken a little brandy from a small bottle that she 
kept for emergencies and put it into a mug with 
some boiling water, sugar and spice. 

When the highly stimulating cordial was ready, 
she brought it to the bedside and looked at the face 
of the girl. 

That face had changed from its white repose to 
a look of helpless, intense suffering. 


"You see ske is recovering!" exclaimed David, 

"Yes, I see she is, poor child!" replied the dame, 
as with a small teaspoon she tried to pass a little of 
the spiced brandy, drop by drop, between the pale 
and writhen lips. 

Much has been falsely said and written about the 
agony of death, when every doctor knows that 
death, in itself, is no agony at all ; and every true 
Christian feels that it is a release from all pain, a 
delicious falling asleep, for a few hours, to awake 
in the glad and glorious surprise of the higher and 
better life. 

But no one who has not experienced it knows, or 
can know, the insufferable anguish of resuscitation 
from apparent death. The almost stagnant blood 
beginning to circulate again through nearly col 
lapsed veins and arteries, inflicts tortures upon 
every nerve tortures unheard of in the cruelest in 
quisition. Red-hot needles seem to be piercing 
every nerve of the body and pore of the skin. It is 
an agony that even the torpor of the brain does not 
overcome. And the victim writhes and moans with 
anguish, while quite unconscious of his condition 
or surroundings. He only feels ; he knows nothing. 

As soon as the sufferer, struggling through pain 
back to life, began to breathe more freely, Dame 
Lindsay, without speaking to her, or in any way dis 
turbing her, quietly administered a composing 
drink that soon sent her into a sweet, natural sleep. 
Then she placed bottles of hot water to her feet and 
between her shouders, covered her up very warmly, 
and hung a clean quilt before the bed to shade her 
from the light of the fire. 

"Now, lad, she is comfortable, and when she 


wakes up, whether to-night or to-morrow morning, 
she will be all right. She will want nourishment 
the very first thing. Fortunately, I have got that 
piece of beef ee brought for to-morrow s dinner. I 
will cut the lean pieces from it and make some beef 
tea, and keep it by the fire ready for her. But now 
carry the mattress and things back up stairs and 
come back to ee supper. Ee must be hungry by 

this time, and Eh? Why there ee stands in 

ee wet clothes all this time, and I taking no notice. 
Go change em, boy! Go change em this minute, 
or ee ll get ee death of cold. Eh ! to think I should 
a forgot ee ! But the lass was so near dead ! Go, 
lad, go!" 

"Don t be uneasy, grandmother. I don t catch 
cold from sea water ; and now I am so fired with joy 
and gratitude that I couldn t take cold," said the 
young man, as he cleared the floor of bedding and 
carried the bundle up stairs. 

Meanwhile, the dame put the supper hot ginger 
bread and all on the table; and by the time she 
had finished the work, David came down in dry 
clothing to join her. 

She refrained from questioning him until he had 
got through with his evening meal, and she had 
cleared away the table. 

Then, when they were seated together before the 
cheerful fire, Dame Lindsay knitting, and occasion 
ally watching the saucepan which contained the 
beef tea she had made and set to simmer on the 
coals, and David busy with a bit of bone carving in 
his hand, the old woman said : 

"Now, lad, tell me how all this happened." 

"I was in the boat coming from the main when I 
happened to look towards the Kogues Neck, and 


there I saw some one attempting to cross. The pas 
senger was about half way over and the tide was 
rising rapidly. I knew, of course, whoever it might 
be, could never succeed in reaching either shore, 
but would certainly be overtaken by the tide and 
drowned unless I could reach the Neck in time for 

"And ee didn t know it was she?" inquired the 

"No, I did not even know whether it was a man 
or a woman. I could only see that it was some one. 
But I turned and rowed as fast as I could for the 
Neck. Then I saw it was a woman, and I rowed 
faster than ever ; for the tide was so high even then 
that she could scarcely keep her feet." 

"Poor lass! Go on, David." 

"I pulled on the oars as hard as I could and made 
the best speed; I shouted to her to take courage. 
She did not seem to hear or see me; but, oh, grand 
mother, when I got within a few yards of that spot 
I recognized her in the same instant that I saw her 
whelmed off and whirled away ! Indeed, for a mo 
ment, I seemed to have lost my senses. But soon I 
rallied and rowed to the spot where I had seen her 
disappear. Then I threw off my overcoat and jacket 
to be ready, and I watched to see her rise. I knew 
she would rise near the Neck, or be thrown upon it 
by the returning wave, so there I watched. I saw 
her rise at last. I threw myself into the sea, dived 
as she went down again, caught her raiment, 
dragged her to the surface, and drew her toward 
the boat. I had some difficulty in recovering the 
boat, and getting into it with my precious burden. 
She was quite insensible and cold, but I wrapped 
her in my jacket and overcoat, and laid her down in 


the bottom of the boat on her right side, with her 
breast and face turned downward, and her wrists 
bent under her forehead, and I kept one of my 
hands between her shoulders, moving her gently 
from time to time as we do to recover the drowned, 
you know while I rowed as well as I could with 
the other hand, and so reached our landing at last. 
I brought her here because it was so much nearer 
than her own home. But, oh, granny, when I lifted 
her out of the boat I thought she was dead !" 

"So she would have been, lad, if it hadn t been 
for ee care," said the dame. 

"And have I, by the Lord s help, saved her life? 
Are you sure she will take no fatal harm from that 
ice-cold plunge in the sea?" inquired the young 
man, in a painful doubt, strangely inconsistent with 
his expressed confidence at a less hopeful time. 

Before replying to his question the dame went to 
the bedside and examined her patient, then she 
came back and said : 

"Yes, lad, ee has certainly saved the little lady s 
life. She will take no harm now. She is in a sound 
sleep and a gentle perspiration. She is perfectly 
safe now. So ee may rest satisfied." 

" Satisfied, dear granny !" exclaimed the youth, 
with a look of radiant happiness on his face. " Sat 
isfied? Why, I am overjoyed, crowned, blessed! I 
would rather have saved her precious life than to 
have won all the wealth, fame, power and glory of 
this world !" 

"I believe ee, lad! I believe ee!" 

"But, what do I say? The glory of this world? 
Why, I would rather have saved her sacred life than 
have won Heaven !" 

"Eh! Stop there, lad! Ee>s growing profane! 


Is that ee gratitude to the Lord? Stop at the glory 
of this world, lad, and do not compare any earthly 
good with the heavenly blessedness," said the dame, 
laying down her knitting and placing her spectacles 
high on her cap that she might look him straight in 
the face with her earnest blue eyes. 

"I did not mean to be profane," said David, 

The good woman resumed her work, and David 
took up his own, and they worked in silence until 
the hour for retiring drew near, when Dame Lind 
say finally rolled up her knitting, took off her spec 
tacles and put them both away, and said : 

"Now, David, read a chapter from the Word, and 
then get ee to bed, lad." 

"And you, granny? Where will you sleep?" in 
quired the young man. 

"I shall sit in my old arm-chair by the fire as long 
as I can keep up, and then I shall lie down on the 
bed beside the lassie, so as to wake readily if she 
should stir." 

"Don t sit up too long, dear granny. You are not 

"Don t ee fear, Davie; I ll lie down when I grow 

David brought the Bible and seated himself at 
the table opposite his aged relative, and read parts 
of the first and second chapters of Matthew, record 
ing the genealogy and birth of our Saviour. Then 
the dame folded her hands and reverently prayed 
for both, that they might be able to receive the Lord 
in their affections in that sacred Christmas season, 
and be led by Him forever. 

"Now, David, lad, get ee to bed," she said, as she 
arose from her knees. 


"If I can be of any use during the night, will you 
call me, granny?" 

"Ay, lad, be sure of that." 

Then David kissed her withered hand and went 
up to his loft; but instead of going into bed, he 
placed himself on the floor with his feet through 
the trap-door, resting on the highest step, and there 
he sat and watched and listened until Christmas 
Eve passed into Christmas Morn. 

About midnight he heard his grandmother rise 
from her chair and cross the room, to lie down be 
side the sleeping girl. 

Then he bent his head and called: 

"Granny! granny!" 

"Ay, lad, what is it?" 

"Can I do anything at all?" 

"Nay, boy. Get ? ee back to bed." 

She did not suspect that he had not been in bed. 

He resumed his watch and kept it up until day 
light. He scarcely heard a sound from below, ex 
cept an occasional slight sigh, or motion from the 
old woman, who, like all aged persons, was a very 
light sleeper. 

When morning dawned, David heard his grand 
mother rise and open the windows. 

Then he called down the stairs once more : 

"Granny " 

"Ay, lad." 

"Can I help you now?" 

"Ay, lad, put on ? ee clothes and come down." 

David had not taken off his clothes, and there 
fore had not to put them on. He instantly descended 
the narrow stairs and stood before his grandmother. 

"I never knew ? ee to dress so quick, lad," she 


"That was because I was not undressed. What 
can I do first, granny?" 

"Ay, indeed ! Ee s been sitting up all night ! It 
was a useless loss of rest, Davie, but w< x ll meant. 
Take eeself off now to the shed and bring in some 
wood, lad." 

The young man went out to do her bidding, and 
soon returned with an armful of brown hickory 
logs, which he laid upon the fire. 

Then he took the tea-kettle out and filled it from 
the cistern and brought it back and hung it over the 

Every movement of the old woman and the young 
man was made quietly and noiselessly, so as not to 
disturb the calm sleeper, who as yet gave no signs 
of waking. 

"Now, lad, I ll leave ee here to watch the kettle. 
Take it off as soon as it boils, and don t forget to 
turn the johnny cake," said Dame Lindsay, as she 
took her fresh sweet pail and went out to milk the 
cow, a duty she would never allow David to do for 
her. Indeed, the act of setting a man or boy to 
milk would have shocked her ideas of the fitness 
of things. She would have thought it an insult to 
the cow. 

When she had closed the door behind her, David 
Lindsay gave a glance to the fireplace, to see that 
all was right there, and then he went on tiptoe to 
the side of the bed and gazed reverently on "the 
sleeping beauty." 

The quilt that had been hung in front to shield 
her eyes from the ruddy blaze of the fire on the 
previous night, when repose was so necessary to her 
shattered nervous system, w r as now removed to give 
her more air ; for the time had come when it would 


be well for her to awake. The bed had been straight 
ened into perfect order and the white counterpane 
drawn up, so that only the lovely face, laying with 
its right cheek on the pillow, and forehead towards 
the front of the bed, was visible. The golden hair 
had been drawn away from the nape of the neck and 
carried up over the pillow, where it lay a shining 
mass of curls. A very pathetic face it was, with 
the tender eyes half shut, the sweet lips half closed. 
Her sleep looked like the "deep deliciousness of 
death"; though had it been really that, it might 
have been said with equal truth that it looked like 
the sweetest sleep. 

David Lindsay sank on his knees beside the bed 
and gazed on the beautiful, unconscious face turned 
towards him, as he never would have dared to gaze 
had those features been instinct with wakeful in 
telligence. And then, out of the fullness of his 
heart, he began to murmur words of passionate love 
to those sealed ears that he never would have ven 
tured to utter had they been listening words of 
reverential, worshiping love, that for their inco 
herence and extravagance could scarcely bear rep 
etition here. He lifted a tress of the floating golden 
hair and pressed it to his lips, while his tears fell 
thick and heavily. 

"Why do I love you?" he sighed at length. "I 
know it is vain, and worse than vain ! I am but a 
clod of the earth! And you, what are you? I 
scarcely know. Something so pure, so precious, 
so sacred, that it seems sacrilege to touch this halo 
around your head, these peerless tresses. Yet I love 
you ! I love you ! Clod as I am, I love you, oh ! un 
attainable blessing! I might as well love a queen 
on her throne, the sun in the heavens, the moon, or 


any glorious, infinitely distant star! Oh, Gloria! 
Gloria ! Bright seraph, why did you come and shine 
on this poor earth that I am, to quicken it with a 
living soul to wake it to such love, such suffering, 
such despair?" 

Down went his head again upon the side of the 
bed, while his bosom heaved with heavy sobs, and 
his tears fell like rain. 

"David Lindsay." 

Her sweet voice fell on his ears like a benediction. 

He lifted his head. She was awake, and gazing 
gently on his troubled face. 

"What is the matter, David Lindsay? What has 
happened?" she inquired, with a look of sympathy 
and deep perplexity. 

"Nothing ; I mean yes, something has happened, 
but it is well over, and, oh, how I thank heaven to 
hear you speak again !" he said, with an effort to 
recover his self-control, as he arose from his knees. 

"What? Is the little lady awake at last? Well, 
it is time. It would not have been good for her to 
have slept longer," said the voice of Dame Lindsay, 
who had just entered the room and approached the 

"She has just this instant opened her eyes, and 
has scarcely yet collected her thoughts, I think," 
said the young man, in a low tone, as he gave place 
to the old woman, and went out of the house to con 
ceal from her the traces of his strong emotion. 

"How does ? ee feel, dearie?" inquired the dame, 
bending over the revived girl. 

"I don t think I quite know," answered Gloria, 
with a bewildered look, as she passed her hand over 
her forehead, as if to clear away some mental mist 


of forgetful ness, and opened her eyes, half raised 
herself in bed and gazed around her. 

"Does ee know nie, dearie?" 

"Oh, yes, dee-ar, good Dame Lindsay, but I don t 
remember " 

"Does ee know where ee is, darling?" 

"To be sure I do know this dee-ar old cottage, but 
I can t remember coming here at all !" 

"As how should ee, indeed, darling? Ee knowed 
nothing about it! Now, don t talk any more, and 
don t even think, if ? ee can help it; but lie still 
until I bring ee some strong beef tea to nourish ee 
and give strength," said the good woman, as she 
laid the girl s head back on the pillow and drew 
the counterpane up to her chin. 

But a change came over Gloria s face. Dark mem 
ory, like a cloud, arose and overcast it ; yet she mis 
took the reality for a dream, and she shuddered as 
she said : 

"Oh, dee-ar Granny Lindsay, don t go yet! Give 
me your hand, and let me hold you fast! I am 
frightened I am frightened " 

"What is the matter with ? ee, dearie?" inquired 
the sympathetic woman, as she gave her hand, 
which the girl clasped spasmodically, and held fast. 

"Oh, Granny, Granny Lindsay, I have had such a 
horrid, horrid nightmare! I dreamed that I was 
drowning, and, oh, I saw and felt it all, as if it had 
been real ! Oh, Granny Lindsay, don t leave me yet, 
but tell me what has happened, and how I came to 
be here? Have I been ill a long time? and de 
lirious? I have heard of people being so ill and de 
lirious that they could know nothing of the passage 
of time. Uncle was so, you know, after auntie died. 
Have I been so long?" 


"No, dearie, ee couldn t talk so fast, if ee had 
been/ replied the dame, with a smile. 

"Then what has happened, and how is it that I 
am here instead of at home?" 

" Ee has had a ducking in the sea, lassie, no 
worse. Ee was swept off the Rogue s Neck by the 
tide, when ? ee was too late in trying to cross, and 
ee might have " 

"Oh, yes, yes, yes, it was no nightmare, but an 
awful fact!" murmured the girl to herself, as she 
pressed her hands upon her face. 

"And ee might have been drowned sure enough if 
Davie hadn t seen ee from his boat and picked ee 
up, dearie." 

"David Lindsay?" breathed the girl. 

"Ay, dearie, David Lindsay. He picked ee up 
and brought ee home here, because it was so much 
nearer than the hall, ee knows, dearie." 

"David Lindsay saved my life!" murmured the 
girl, dreamily. 

"Ay, little lady, he did ; and so ee got no worse 
harm than a cold ducking though indeed ee was 
quite insensible, and seemed lifeless when ee was 
brought here in the arms of Davie. But ee s all 
right now, dearie." 

"David Lindsay saved my life!" reiterated the 
girl, dwelling fondly on the words, and on the 

"Eh ! lass, surely yes, and we must thank the 
Lord that ee w r as saved." 

"Yes ; and David Lindsay, too ! Oh ! I am pleased 
that it was he, my old playmate, and no other. 
What will uncle say now?" muttered the girl, still 

"Eh ! dearie, he w r ould say that ee ought to take 


some nourishing food immediately. Ain t *ee hun 
gry now, say?" 

"Yes," promptly replied Gloria. 

"Now ee knows all about it, ee ll not be afeard 
to let me go?" 

"Oh, no !" said Gloria, smiling; for she was every 
moment growing better. 

The dame brought her the beef tea and dry toast 
from the fire, and made her take that first, saying : 

" ? Ee shall have a cup of coffee or tea, whichever 
? ee likes, presently; but this is the best for ee now." 

Gloria obediently consumed all the beef tea and 
dry toast, and relished both. 

"Now I feel well ; but I think I would rather lie 
here a few minutes longer, and not try to get up yet, 
if you will let me, dee-ar Dame Lindsay." 

"To be sure, little lady. Ee should lie there 
quietly all the morning, and when ee rises should 
rest quietly in the house for a day or two. Could 
ee be satisfied to stay here till ? ee gets over the 

"Oh, yes, dee-ar Dame Lindsay, I was always so 
happy when here with you. Oh, I wish there would 
come a snow-storm, and I would be snow-bound here 
for a long time. But, oh, poor uncle! Does he 
know that David Lindsay saved my life?" 

"No, dearie; there has been no time to tell him. 
It is early in the morning yet, ee knows; but after 
breakfast Davie must go and tell him that ee s 

"And that I must stay here for a few days," 
added Gloria. 

"Surely, dearie," replied the old woman. 

At this moment the two were startled by a loud 


Dame Lindsay got up to answer the summons, but 
before she could cross the floor, the door was thrown 
violently open and Colonel de Crespigney strode 
into the room, looking pale, haggard, hurried, and 
at least thirty years older than when we saw him 



O, shut me nightly in a charnel house, 
O er covered quite with dead men s rattling bones, 
With reeking shanks, and yellow, chapless skulls ; 
Or bid me go into a new-made grave 
And hide me with a dead man in his shroud 
Things that to hear them told have made me trem 

And I will do them without fear or doubt 
To live unstained. SHAKESPEARE. 

"I BEG your pardon for this sudden intrusion, but 
I am suffering great the greatest anxiety!" he 
began, casting his eyes around the room. "My 
ward has been missing since yesterday. Have you 
seen have you heard " 

"She is safe, Colonel de Crespigney. She is quite 
safe. She is here," answered Dame Lindsay, lead 
ing the visitor around the headboard of the bed, 
that had hitherto hidden the recumbent girl from 
his sight. 

"Gloria, my darling!" he exclaimed, as soon as, 
his eyes fell upon her. "Heavens, what a fright you 


have given us ! What insufferable tortures of anx 
iety and suspense! And to find you here, and in 
bed, too ! What does all this mean?" he demanded, 
turning in more displeasure than gratitude to the 
old dame. 

"It means that the little lady, while trying to 
walk across the Kogue s Neck, was overtaken by the 
tide and swept off to sea, and was picked up by my 
Davie, who happened to be out with his boat, and 
who brought her here as to the nearest house," re 
plied Dame Lindsay. 

"What is all this that she tells me, Gloria?" in 
quired the shocked colonel. 

"The truth, uncle ! David Lindsay saved my life," 
said the girl, with a glow of gratitude and pride. 

"A gallant deed, for which he shall be most lib 
erally rewarded," said Colonel de Crespigney, as he 
sank into the chair that Dame Lindsay had silently 
placed for him at the side of the bed. 

Gloria darted a glance full of scorn and indigna 
tion at this speech. It fell harmlessly on the 
colonel s unobservant head, and he repeated: "A 
gallant deed, truly, of the young fisherman, and he 
shall be munificently paid! But, my dear girl, how- 
could you have been so imprudent as to cross the 
main alone? Did you not know there was great 

"I did not care. I was weary of myself and every 
body else! And now I am very glad I went, for 
David Lindsay saved my life," said Gloria, luxuriat 
ing over the words and the thought. 

"I say it was a brave deed, for which he shall be 
munificently rewarded," repeated the colonel ; "but 
still, my darling, I think that it was a pity your 
life should be risked for the sake of having it saved, 


even by David Lindsay," lie added, with a little sar 

"I think not! The risk and pain are compen 
sated by the memory left behind a sweetness that 
will last me all my days/ replied the girl, as a 
strange tenderness of joy melted and irradiated her 

The colonel s brow grew dark. He did not speak 
for a few moments ; when he did it was to say : 

"My dear Gloria, we owe a deep debt of gratitude 
to this good woman and her son or grandson, is 
he? But we must not trespass on their kind hos 
pitality. I am sure you must be sufficiently recov 
ered to rise and dress and return with me to the 

"Oh, no, sir, indeed she is not. She has been so 
shaken by her shock. Take an old oman s word for 
it, sir, she had better bide here a day or two," said 
Dame Lindsay, speaking earnestly for her guest. 

"Indeed, uncle, she is right. I need to stay here 
where I am/ added Gloria. 

"Will you have the kindness to withdraw for a 
few moments and leave me alone with my ward? I 
have something to say to her in private," said 
Colonel de Crespigney, turning to the woman. 

Dame Lindsay bent her head and went up into 
the little loft, and improved her time there by mak 
ing David s bed. 

"Gloria, my dearest, I could not speak freely to 
you in the presence of your humble hostess " be 
gan the colonel ; but the willful girl impatiently in 
terrupted him. 

" Humble hostess, uncle? Why should Dame 
Lindsay be called humble/ indeed? I call her my 
honored hostess, in my own thoughts." 


"Well, well, my little girl, call her what you will. 
I shall not differ with you. But, my dear, I was 
about to say that it is not fitting or proper that you 
should remain here any longer." 

"Why is it not fitting or proper, uncle?" 

"Because this is the house of a young laboring 
man, and while you are here you are his visitor." 

"But I am his grandmother s guest," persisted 

"No, my child, no ; the house is his, not his grand 
mother s. The position is unfit, improper, indeli 
cate. I wonder you do not see that it is so !" 

"No, I do not see it. But if any one sees it, that 
is enough. I cannot stay, of course. I will go home 
with you, uncle." 

"That is right, Gloria. That is right, my dearest 
girl. I thank you, love, for your ready acquiescence 
in my views and compliance with my wishes. As 
for this young Lindsay, who is such a favorite 
protege of yours and deservedly so, I must admit 
he shall be well paid for the service he has ren 
dered you. I will send him a check for a thousand 
dollars to-morrow." 

"Marcel !" exclaimed Gloria, lifting herself up 
and looking him straight in the face, "if you do such 
a thing as that I will never forgive you as long as I 
live in this world!" 

"Gloria, what on earth do you mean? Have you 
gone crazy, child?" 

"No, but I think you have !" 

"What do you mean?" 

"I mean just what I say, Colonel de Crespigney ! 
If you were to offer David Lindsay money for sav 
ing my life, I would never speak to you again as 
long as I should live on this earth !" 


"But, my dear, unreasonable child, why should I 
not do so?" 

" Why? I wonder you, a gentleman and a sol 
dier, you, a De Crespigney, cannot see why?" said 
Gloria, harping a little upon his own words of a few 
minutes past. 

"I cannot see ; but if you or any one can, I should 
like to be informed of the reason," said the colonel, 
in the same spirit. 

"Then I will tell you. Suppose it had fallen to 
your lot to rescue Dame Lindsay from drowning, 
and David Lindsay had offered you money, as much 
as he could afford, in payment of your services, 
what would you have thought? How would you 
have felt?" 

"My dearest Gloria, the cases differ totally," ex 
claimed the colonel, with a flushed brow. 

"They do not differ in one essential point, uncle, 
and you know it, and feel it now, if you neither 
knew nor felt it before. I will yield to your wishes 
and return home with you to-day. But you must 
not insult my preserver by offering him any sort of 
reward for saving me. You may thank him, for 
yourself and for me; but thank him as you would 
thank General Stuart, or Doctor Battis, or any 
other gentleman of your acquaintance, had either of 
them rendered me the same inestimable service." 

"My dear, absurd child, I do thank him more than 
tongue can tell. I think the most practical way of 
expressing my thanks would be to send him a check 
for a round urn; but if you prefer that I should 
take off my hat to him instead, why, I will do that." 

"Yes, do that. Take off your hat to him. And, 
now please to go to the foot of the stairs there and 
call Granny Lindsay down. She will get cold if she 


stays up in that fireless loft any longer," said 
Gloria, who had been anxious all this time on ac 
count of her old friend. 

"Mrs. Lindsay, Miss de ia Vera would like to see 
you," said Colonel de Crespigney, from the foot of 
the ladder. 

"Ay, sir, I will come down," answered the dame, 
and she immediately descended. 

"Granny Lindsay, my ancle has convinced me 
that I ought to return home with him. I am very 
sorry to leave you, but I must go!" said Gloria, 

"Ah, well, dearie, I am sorry, too but of course 
? ee must be guided by ee gardeen, little lady, and I 
hope ee ll take no harm. ? Ee clothes are all dry 
and ready for ? ee, and I ll wrap ee up warm and 
nice for ee little journey," said the dame. 

"And now, uncle, you will please to withdraw ! 
You see there is only this one room and we must 
take turns." 

Colonel de Crespigney smiled good humored ly 
enough as he left the house to walk up and down in 
the crisp, cold winter air outside. 

Dame Lindsay brought the girl s clothes from the 
chair over which they had been hanging near the 

"Granny Lindsay, where has David Lindsay 
gone?" inquired Gloria, as she arose and began to 
dress herself. 

"Down to the shore to look after his boat, I 
reckon, lovie; or maybe he has crossed to the main 
to bring a load of brushwood." 

"He hurried away as soon as I awoke and you 
came in. " \ 


"Yes, dearie, he did so to give you a cliance to get 
up and dress, I reckon." 

"Will he be back before I go?" 

"I hope so, dearie." 

Gloria slowly dressed herself, and then requested 
that her uncle might be called in. 

Dame Lindsay, meanwhile, had placed coffee, hot 
rolls, and broiled ham on the breakfast table, and 
now she went to the door and summoned Colonel 
de Crespigney. 

"I hope you will do us the pleasure to take a cup 
of coffee this Christmas morning, sir," said the 
dame, as she placed a chair at the table for her last 

"Thanks, no ; I took coffee before I left home this 
morning," answered the colonel. 

But Gloria sat down and drank a little cup with 
her hostess. 

Then, not to keep her guardian waiting longer 
than necessary, she arose, and put on her hat and 
sack to depart. 

"Good-by, dear friend," she said, offering her 
cheek to the old dame s kiss. "Good-by. I shall 
never forget your motherly kindness to me. And 
please to say good-by for me to David Lindsay, and 
tell him that I shall hold my life sweeter from this 
day forth, because he saved it." 

With this grateful and gracious message to her 
preserver, Gloria joined her uncle and left the cot 

Involuntarily her eyes roamed all over the islet, 
in search of her old playmate; but in vain, for he 
was nowhere to be seen. 

"Lean heavily on me, my child. You are pale and 
trembling," said De Crespigney, tenderly, as he 


drew her hand under his arm and slackened his 
steps to accommodate them to her weary walk. 

When they reached the shore, Gloria looked 
around again for some signs of David Lindsay s 
presence, but there was none to be seen, not even his 
little boat; and this was a certain indication that 
the dame s conjectures pointed to the truth, and 
that the young fisherman had crossed to the main. 

With a sigh Gloria gave up the hope she had 
cherished of seeing and thanking him in person be 
fore leaving the island. 

Colonel de Crespigney s boat was waiting, and 
Laban, who had seen them coming, and joyfully 
recognized Gloria, was laying on the oars. 

"Come, my dear," said the colonel, as he handed 
his ward to her seat in the stern ; "come, make your 
self comfortable. Double your sack over your chest. 
It is a splendid day for late December, but the air 
is rather keen on the water." 

"Oh, Miss Glo ! FS so glad you s safe!" cried 
Laban, grinning ^rom ear to ear. " Deed we dem 
over to the house is been almos crazy bout yer 
ebber since las night, when yer didn t come home to 
dinner. And me and Marse Colonel Discrepancy 
beatin de main woods all night long! All de 
blessed, live-long Christmas Bbe night! And took 
Fiddle long of us and made her smell some o yer 
close, and didn t she take a round-about ramble 
t rough dem woods?" 

"Did you hunt for me all last night, Marcel, 
dear?" inquired Gloria, with more tenderness than 
she had shown him for many weeks. 

"Yes, my child. Did you suppose, Gloria, that I 
could have rested one moment, anywhere, from the 
hour that you were missed until you were found? 


It was at dinner that, on your non-appearance, I 
inquired of your maid why you did not come, and 
was told that you had been gone all day to the main, 
and had not returned. T had no thought but that 
you had lost yourself in the woods, and so I set out 
at once, with Laban here and your little dog 
Fidelle, and lanterns. The tide was low when we 
crossed the Neck. The little animal soon struck 
your trail, and convinced me that I was right. You 
have been told how she kept us wandering around 
in a circle all night. In the morning, as a forlorn 
hope, we returned to the Promontory, took the boat 
and came to the island to make inquiries." 

"Oh! Marcel, dear, I never realized before how 
much distress my imprudence caused you," said 
Gloria, penitently, as she now for the first time ob 
served the ravages that one night s intense anxiety 
had wrought in the man s face. 

"Yer better beliebe it den, Miss Glo !" spoke up 
Laban. "Ef my head hadn t been gray long afore 
dis, last night s doings would a turned it! And 
dere s Phia, gone to bed long of a sick headache, 
and Mia in de high-strikes." 

While this conversation was going on they were 
rapidly passing over the water between Sandy Isle 
and the Promontory. 

With Labaii s last words, the boat grounded on 
the beach below the sea-wall, and the boatman drew 
in his oars. 

"Go on to the house as fast as you can, Laban, 
and relieve the anxiety of your fellow-servants, so 
that they may be in a condition to attend Miss 
Davero when we get home," said Colonel de Cres- 
pigney, as he handed his ward from the boat. 


The man very gladly obeyed, and ran on before 
them so rapidly that he was soon out of sight. 

Colonel de Crespigney found himself alone with 
his ward for the first time (with the exception of 
the few minutes they had talked together in the 
little island cot, whose very walls had ears). 

He drew her hand within his arm, and support 
ing her carefully, walked slowly on through that 
boat-house built in the sea-wall, and then up 
through the fields and ornamented grounds that lay 
between it and the hall. 

"Gloria, my beloved, can you really estimate all I 
have suffered during your unexpected absence?" he 
inquired, as he pressed the hand that rested on his 

"Yes, uncle, I think I can. I am very sorry. I 
was not w r orth so much anxiety, uncle, dear." 

"Do not call me uncle! I cannot bear to hear 
you call me so!" he burst forth with such energy 
that the girl shrank from him, and shudded through 
all her frame. 

"Gloria ! Do you not understand me? Will you 
never understand me? Child, I can smother my 
feelings no longer ! I have tried to keep silence, but 
I cannot! Twenty-four hours of agony have over 
come my last power self-control ! Oh, my love, I 
love you ! I love you !" he cried, stopping suddenly 
and facing her. 

"Uncle! for Heaven s sake, uncle!" she ex 
claimed, in deadly terror. 

"Do not call me by that name unless you would 
drive me mad ! I am not the least kin to you ! I 
thank the Lord I am not your uncle; for I must be 
your husband ! There, it is spoken ! I love you, 
Gloria, with a love that has broken down every bar- 


rier of prudence, self-control, expediency, every 
thing ! I love you with a love that is my fate, and 
must be yours ! For you must be my wife, Gloria !" 
he cried, clasping her hands in his and gazing on 
her with eyes that seemed to burn into her soul. 

One amazed and terrified look she cast upon him, 
and then, with a half-suppressed cry, she broke 
away and fled ! 



Me miserable! Which way shall I fly? 


GLORIA fled towards the house, sped through the 
open door, rushed up the stairs, nor ever paused 
until she had reached her own chamber and locked 
herself within it. 

There she sank down into her arm-chair to re 
cover breath. Her heart was beating fast, her head 

She seemed to herself on the point of swooning 
or dying, and she neither feared nor cared if this 
were her last hour on earth. 

She only feared to hear again the revolting words 
that had just been breathed in her shuddering ears. 
She only cared to escape their repetition. 

This, then, was the meaning of those fixed looks 
that had so thrilled her nerves and curdled her 
Mood Marcel de Crespigney wanted to marry her ! 
Marcel, whom she always so loyally loved as her 
dear aunt s husband and widower, and as her own 


uncle by marriage, now wished to make her his 

She shuddered, and covered her eyes with her 
hands, as if to shut out the vision of such a mar 

But she could not shut out the vision of the beau 
tiful, rather weak face that arose before her in all 
its pale, pathetic, appealing sadness. Those large, 
dark, melancholy eyes haunted her. 

She could not rouse her soul to any anger against 
.him. She loved him too well, as she had always 
done from her earliest infancy to this moment. She 
could not now remember the day when she had not 
loved him better than any one in the whole world. 
She loved him now as well as ever as her uncle, 
her Marcel but she loathed him as a suitor for her 

And withal she pitied him deeply. 

"Poor Marcel !" she murmured to herself when 
she had grown a little calmer. "Poor Marcel ! He 
has always sacrificed himself for the happiness of 
other people even for auntie and he has never 
had any happiness himself. And now he is losing 
his reason. He certainly is losing his reason, or he 
would never dream of such a mad act as marrying 
Ugh! I will not think of it. What a misfortune. 
What can have caused it? His long, lonely life 
perhaps. And perhaps also, as he loves me so dear 
ly, and he has no one else but me to love, he is afraid 
that I will do as other young ladies do that is, 
some time or other, marry and leave him. Foolish 
old Marcel, to think that I would leave him for any 
one else! If he did but know me, he would know 
that I should never marry. But the more I think 
of it, the surer I feel that that is the reason of his 


strange conduct. He loves me; he has no one left 
but me, and he fears that I will leave him, and so 
he wants to marry me just to prevent my going, and 
to insure my staying with him as long as he lives. 
But, oh, what an alternative!" she added, with a 

She was, however, growing calmer, having found, 
as she supposed, a solution of the whole difficulty. 

"Now," she continued her mental argument, 
"when Marcel is made to understand that I will 
never leave him so long as he lives, and never even 
wish to leave him, but will remain with him, and be 
perfectly happy with him, in devoting myself en 
tirely to his service, as the most loving and dutiful 
daughter or niece could do, then, of course, he will 
be perfectly satisfied." 

The ringing of the first dinner-bell aroused her 
from her reverie. 

"Poor Marcel !" she said to herself. "I dare say 
he thinks now that he has frightened and offended 
me so thoroughly that I will not go down and join 
him at dinner, even on this Christmas-day! And 
indeed he did more than frighten me he shocked 
me so awfully that I ain sure I could never bear to 
look on his poor, wretched face again, if I had not 
found a way to cure him of his madness, and make 
him contented a way that will not require any 
self-sacrifice on my part either, for I never dreamed 
of marrying and leaving him. I never liked the idea 
of marrying. The most unhappy people I ever saw 
in my life were married people my aunt and uncle 
and the happiest people I ever knew were the un 
married. No! I will never marry and leave my 
uncle ! And when I make him understand this, he 


will renounce his foolish and sacrilegious mania 
and rest contented with the company of his niece." 

While turning these thoughts over in her mind, 
she was examining the contents of her wardrobe to 
select a dress suitable to the occasion. 

Gloria de la Vera had always dressed in a style 
too old for her early youth and bright beauty. The 
reason w r as perhaps that she saw only elderly or 
aged people. 

Now, for this Christmas tete-a-tete dinner with 
her uncle, she wore a dark blue moire antique, with 
low neck and short sleeves richly trimmed with old 
point lace. Her ornaments were heirlooms of her 
father s family earrings, necklace and bracelets of 
pearls set in diamonds. Her rippling golden hair 
was carried back from her forehead and gathered 
into a shower of ringlets that fell over a low comb 
from the top of her head to her graceful shoulders. 

As the second bell rang, she opened the door and 
descended to the drawing-room. 

Meanwhile Marcel de Crespigney had returned to 
the house, entered the privacy of his library, and 
banged the door to, angrily, behind him. 

And there he had spent some hours striding up 
and down the floor and calling down maledictions 
on his own head for his want of patience and self- 

In the midst of his confusion the sound of the 
first dinner-bell smote his ears. 

He did not attend to its warning to go and make 
his toilet, but continued to walk up and down the 
floor, breathing imprecations upon his own folly, 
until the more imperative clangor of the second bell 
summoned him. 

"And now," he said, "I suppose I have so offended 


and estranged her as to drive her away from the 
table so that I shall have to dine alone on Christ 
mas-day ! Well, it will serve me right if I do !" 

And with another malediction upon his "mad 
ness," he left the study and walked slowly and sadly 
into the dining-room. 

How great was his surprise and pleasure to see 
his beloved Gloria standing with her hand upon the 
back of her chair, at the head of the table. 

He noticed, too, that she was carefully and beau 
tifully dressed though, with her moir6 antique, old 
point lace and diamonds, more in the style of a 
middle-aged matron than a very youthful maiden. 

She was looking happy, too a circumstance 
which he misunderstood and misinterpreted in his 
own favor, for he could not know what had been 
passing in her own mind, or that her content was 
founded on the faith that she had discovered a per 
fect solution for the difficulty in which she had pre 
viously found herself. 

If the servant had not been present he would 
have expressed his contrition for having frightened 
her, and his delight in meeting her again, but there 
stood Laban, in his best holiday dress, a suit of fine 
black broadcloth, swallow-tailed coat and continua 
tions, black satin vest and spotless linen, exhibit 
ing at once the self-consciousness of a dandy and 
the solemnity of a bishop, and looking disapproba 
tion on his shabby and rusty master, who had made 
no toilet in honor of the Christmas dinner. 

The young lady of the house took no notice of the 
colonel s neglect; yet it was to her he spoke, of 
course, when he said: 

"I owe you an apology, my dear, for appearing 
before you in this style, but really " 


"Never mind, uncle, dear. We are alone, so what 
does it matter? Who has a better right to appear 
in comfortable dishabille at his own table than you 
have?" she brightly inquired, thinking at the same 
time of the graver apology he owed her for a heavier 

He naturally misinterpreted her good humor, and 
rewarded it with a smile of gratitude. 

Though they were but two, the dinner was a pro 
tracted one, for there were many courses, and the 
family cook would have felt enraged if every one 
of them had not been honored. 

And old Laban a cross between a bishop and a 
dandy waited with solemnity and self-conceit. 

At length it was over, and they adjourned to the 

"Shall I play Luther s Christmas hymn for you, 
uncle, dear?" inquired Gloria, as she seated herself 
before the piano. 

"Yes, love, thank you, play that, but no more; for 
I wish to talk with you and settle something before 
I can take any interest in anything else," he replied. 

Gloria sat down and played and sang with all 
her usual feeling, spirit and charm. 

When she had finished her hymn, she arose and 
went to the fire and seated herself beside her guard 
ian ; for she also wished to talk to him, and "settle 
something" which she believed would content then> 

Colonel de Crespigney was the first to speak. 

"I was too sudden with you this morning, dear. 
I did not stop to consider how your nerves had been 
shaken by the frightful accident of yesterday, and 
so I startled you by a too abrupt disclosure of my 
feelings." He paused a moment, and then added: 


"I beg you to forgive my want of consideration, dear 

child, and to let me hope " He paused again, 

and she took his hand and said kindly : 

"Say no more about it, uncle, dear. I understand 
I understand and I have something to reply, 

"You understand, and yet you call me uncle !" he 
said, wincing. 

"It was a slip of the tongue, Marcel, dear. A 
mere matter of habit. I will learn to call you any 
thing you please, so that I may make you happy," 
she answered, affectionately. 

"And you will let me hope you will let me hope 
that some day, not far off, you will give yourself 
to me entirely; you will be my own, my precious, 
my pearl beyond price, my best gift of God MY 
WIFE?" he breathed, in low, deep, intense tones, 
while his whole dark face grew radiant with happi 
ness. He took her hand and gazed into her eyes. 
She drew her hand away, averted her head and 
shrank from him. 

"My timid one, what are you afraid of?" he ten 
derly inquired, drawing nearer to her, and attempt 
ing gently to steal his arm around her waist, for he 
still fatally misunderstood her. 

"Don t, uncle, don t! This is madness! This is 
sacrilege!" she exclaimed, withdrawing herself 
from his gentle caress. "I am not timid, uncle; 
but don t do that again, or you will drive me out of 
your sight forever," she added, as she walked away 
to a distant window, and stood there, pale and 
trembling, looking out, but seeing nothing. 

Marcel de Crespigney remained where she had 
left him, leaning back into his chair, with his eyes 
fixed upon the fire like hers, seeing nothing. 


He did not attempt to follow her to apologize or 
explain. He was sorely perplexed. 

After a few moments, when she had had time to 
compose herself, she came back to her seat and 

"When I ran away from you this morning, I was 
too much shocked and distracted to understand 
anything rightly, or to know what to do. But after 
I had come to myself I began to reflect, and, at 

length, I comprehended " She paused, as if to 

think a little longer. 

"Yes, dear; I know, I know. I will give you 
time. I will be very patient," he replied, very gen 
tly and contentedly, for he still widely misinter 
preted her. She did not know that he did so mis 
interpret her, and thus they were unconsciously at 

"And," slowly continued the girl, "as soon as I 
comprehended, I resolved to come to you and tell 
you something that I have determined upon, and 
which I think will harmonize our lives, and make 
us both happy." 

"Yes, love, yes, speak freely, speak plainly!" he 
breathed hardly, suppressing every impulse to draw 
nearer to her, or to touch her hand that hung so 
near his, over the arm of her chair. 

"Well, then, Marcel, dear oh! it is difficult to 
speak of marriage, even negatively, as I shall ! but, 
Marcel, I know you have been thinking that some 
day I might, as other young folks do, marry and 
leave my home for another; and so, to prevent me 
from doing that, you dreamed of the impossible 
plan you proposed to me " 

" Impossible, Gloria?" he repeated, as his happy 
face gloomed and darkened. 


"Yes, impossible, because insane, profane, sacri 
legious! Oh, I cannot bear to think of it! Do not 
compel me to think of it even negatively after 

"Gloria !" he cried, in a tone of pain and reproach. 

"Hear me out, dear Marcel! for indeed I mean 
to reassure you ! Listen, then ! Since you love me 
so well that you would even marry me ugh ! 
rather than lose me, hear me promise, Marcel, that 
you shall never lose me. I will never, never, never 
leave you to marry any one at all ! I will stay with 
you and be your own faithful, affectionate, devoted 
niece, loving you as if I were your daughter loving 
and serving you as my dear uncle, and even as if you 
were my own father! Now, Marcel, I promise to 
do this on the word of a de la Vera, whose very 
name is Truth ! if only you would give up this mad 
and sacrilegious idea of me, which, of course, I 
know you will readily do." 

"And is this your plan for harmonizing our 
lives and making me happy?" he groaned, with 
such a look of anguish that Gloria could not en 
dure it. With a low cry of pain she averted her 

"But, child, I will not torture you, as I see I am 
doing now. Time and patience time and patience 
work wonders. I must wait and hope wait and 
hope," he breathed, with the reiteration of misery. 

She arose and stood behind him, and with her 
hand on the back of his chair, murmured : 

"Marcel, I am not angry, but I am very, very un 
happy. I must go now and stay by myself a little 

"Go, then, Gloria! Go!" he moaned, without 
turning to look at her. 


Gloria fled to her own room ; but even there the 
agonized face she had left behind followed her, 
haunted her, and tormented her. 

Then she dressed herself in her seal jacket and 
hat and went out, and walked up and down under 
the cold starlight of the Christmas night until she 
was so weary that she could walk no longer. 

Finally she returned to the house and retired to 
bed without again seeing her guardian. 

The terrible mental trials of the days and weeks 
that followed, surpass all powers of description. 

The deep, devoted, constant love of Marcel de 
Crespigney for the beautiful child he called his 
ward, had been fanned by opposition and fear of 
disappointment into an intense and insane passion. 
He lost all patience, all self-control; he could no 
longer refrain from pleading with her or caressing 
her, even when he saw that his words and actions 
inflicted tortures unendurable upon the gentle and 
sensitive soul. 

And Gloria, she suffered with a subtle anguish, 
difficult to analyze, impossible to describe. As his 
niece and child, she loved and pitied her uncle, with 
all her young, compassionate heart, even as she had 
loved and pitied him from her earliest infancy up 
to present girlhood. But with her Christian faith 
and training she believed his suit to her to be most 
sinful and sacrilegious, and she shrank from it in 
horror and loathing unspeakable and indescribable. 
Yet, whenever she betrayed these emotions of fear 
and abhorrence, the look of utter misery they would 
call up on his face would cause a momentary re 
vulsion of feeling in her, melting her heart to ten 
derness and sympathy. 


He would be quick to see this change and gather 
hope from it. 

Sometimes during the day, when her pity for him 
almost broke her own heart, she would be on the 
verge of sacrificing all her future life, her religious 
principles, her very soul s salvation, only to give 
him happiness, to drive away the look of misery 
from his face, and see him smile again. 

Sometimes at night she would dream that she had 
really done this, that she had become her uncle s 
wife. Then she would awake with a cry of terror 
and rejoice that it was but a dream. At other 
times she would not wake so soon, but would dream 
on of being married to her uncle, and horrified by 
her position and trying to run away to hide herself, 
to drown herself, to do anything rather than to fall 
into his hands, or be compelled to live with him as 
her husband, and so she would moan and sigh in 
her troubled sleep throughout the night, and wake 
at last prostrated, depressed and miserable, with 
the thought that all too probably, in some weak 
moment when pity should be in the ascendant, this 
hideous dream might become a more hideous reality. 

She had no refuge in her wretchedness, no mother, 
sister or friend to whom she could confide her 
troubles. She could not even go away from her 
guardian or from Promontory Hall. She had no 
protector in the world but him, no home on earth 
but his house. Besides, he was her lawful guardian, 
and had a guardian s power over her if, indeed, 
he ever should choose to exercise it against her will, 
as he never yet had done, and as she was sure he 
never would do. But this power would last until 
she should become of age, or until she should marry ; 
for by the terms of her father s will, her bondage as 


a ward was to terminate with her majority or her 
marriage. Thus she had no refuge from the guard 
ian who never sought to coerce her inclinations in 
any way, but through her affections, through her 
love, sympathy and compassion, had gained an ever- 
increasing and most fatal power over her. 

More and more dangerous grew her position as 
days and weeks went by. Every day she was 
weaker, looking on her lover s despair. Every night 
her dreams were more terrible in their likeness to 
reality. To prove the degree to which her brain 
and nervous system were becoming affected, she be 
gan to be confused by dreams within dreams in 
this way : She would dream that she awoke from a 
dream, and, waking, found that she was really mar 
ried and miserable! 

So utterly distracted was her mind that she could 
never be sure what was vision and what reality. 

She felt herself falling into a despair that touched 
insanity, and inspired deadly horror of the ultimate 

"I am sinking, day by day, deeper and deeper to 
wards perdition ! One of two things will happen to 
me. I shall go mad in this struggle I shall go 
mad and drown myself or else I shall marry Mar 
cel and murder him ! If I could only die decently 
before being driven to such extremity! Heaven 
help me and save me, for I cannot help or save my 
self !" she moaned, in utter anguish. 

But the crisis was fast approaching. 

It happened on a morning near the last of Jan 

The guardian and ward left the breakfast-room; 
he had his hand on the knob of the library-door, 
and she was on her way out for a walk, when he 


called her, and begged her to come in and sit with 
him for a little while. 

The meekness of this prayer moved her to grant 
the boon. 

Without a word she turned and followed him 
into the library. 

He threw himself, with a sigh, into his great 
leathern arm-chair, beside his writing-table. She 
drew forward a low ottoman and seated herself at 
his feet, as she had loved to do in the quiet, peace 
ful days they had spent together, just after her re 
turn home. 

There was something now in his face and manner 
so broken, subdued, resigned, as to touch her deep 
ly with tender compassion, and draw her into 
demonstrations of sympathy and affection that soon 
deprived him of all self-control. Before he was 
aware, he reached down his hands, caught her up 
in his arms, strained her to his bosom, and pressed 
passionate kisses upon eyes, cheeks and lips, while 
speechless, breathless, she struggled and fluttered 
like a captured bird, until, at length, she broke 
away and fled from him. 

He sat where she had left him, grieved and an 
gered with himself for having shocked and dis 
tressed her whom he loved better than his own life ; 
he cursed himself and his weakness and his folly 
as he had never done before! He resolved that 
henceforth he would put such a guard upon himself 
as never to offend her again, by word or look. He 
would not intrude upon her in any way; but when 
he should see her again he would humbly express 
his contrition and sorrow for having offended her, 
and would earnestly beg her forgiveness. 

And she would forgive him; for, after all, what 


great wrong had he done? Only kissed her against 
her will; kissed her rather roughly, perhaps, but 
that was because she resisted him. What great of 
fence was in that? he asked himself. Had he not 
seen in the parlor games of forfeits played in many 
a country house had he not seen young men "pick 
cherries," as they called it run after a young girl 
and catch and kiss her by force, if not against her 
will, and been punished only by a slap on the face, 
administered with a laugh? 

"Gloria is too fastidious, too morbid," he said to 

Yet somehow he could not so excuse himself to 
his own conscience. Gloria was pure, dainty and 
refined, and he was very culpable in his conduct to 
ward her, his conscience told him. 

Now he resolved that he would ask her pardon, 
and after obtaining it he would be more discreet 
and respectful in his manner towards her until his 
love and patience should win her to be his wife. 

Too LATE. 

Marcel de Crespigney was never in his life again 
permitted to look on the face of Gloria de la Vera. 



My drops of tears 
I turn to sparks of fire. 


TERRIFIED and enraged beyond aiay thing that she 
had ever experienced in all the days of her life, 


offended and revolted beyond all hope of reconcilia 
tion, Gloria had fled from the presence of her guard 
ian and sought the sanctity of her own room. 

There she locked herself in, and sat down to re 
cover her lost wits and breath. 

She sat there, looking not like the glad little Glo 
whom we first knew, and whose pulse was music 
and whose breath was song no, she sat there, with 
her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand, 
and her eyes fixed on vacancy, shrunk to half their 
size, gleaming with twice their fire, and glowing 
like live coals from the white ashes of her pale and 
angry face she sat there like some grim little 
Sphinx or Nemesis brooding revenge and plotting 

"I hate him now. I can never bear to look upon 
his face again !" so ran her thoughts. "To dare 
to kiss me on my lips ! Why, my own beloved father 
seldom kissed me except upon my brow. And David 
Lindsay, my old playmate and my preserver, who 
loves me so unselfishly David Lindsay, as he knelt 
beside my bed, on the morning after he had saved 
my life, only lifted a curl of my hair and pressed 
it to his face, and when he saw ine wake and look at 
him, he laid the tress down reverently, as if it were 
something almost too sacred to be touched. And 
he is a poor, uncultivated man. And to think that 
this gentleman, this officer, this Colonel de Cres- 
pigney, should have so forgotten his honor! This 
guardian should have so betrayed his trust as to 
seize and hold me powerless and kiss me on my lips 
in spite of all my struggles and distress! Oh, the 
meanness of the act ! the meanness of the act ! No, 
I can never trust him again. I can never bear to 
see his face again. I will not spend another day in 


his house. But where, oh, where shall I fly? I 
have no place in the world to go to ! Or, if I had, 
there is no place to which he would not follow me 
not to compel my return, though as my guardian 
he could do that. But he would not; he would do 
even worse; he would so humble himself to me, 
would so plead with me, would look so heart-broken 
that he would be sure to prevail with me and coax 
me back. Oh, Heaven! oh, Heaven! if I cannot 
trust him, neither can I trust myself! I hate him, 
and I fear him, and yet I pity him and love him, 
too ! And who knows but that in some moment of 
idiotic pity I may not consent to all he pleads for 
and contract this repulsive marriage? Then I 
should go mad and murder him, or kill myself. 
That is what I am afraid of. That gulf of black 
ruin! What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do? 
Where can I fly from him and from myself? Who 
will save me from myself and from him? Oh, WHAT 
shall I do?" 

She leaned her head upon her hand and reflected 
intently for some minutes, but could think of no 
plan by which to escape. 

Suddenly, without any volition of her own will, 
there flowed into her soul an inspiration. She 
started and raised her head as one listening to a 
suggestion. Her cheeks flushed and paled, and 
flushed again, and her eyes brightened as she arose 
and exclaimed : 

"Yes, I will! I will do it! I will marry David 
Lindsay. I will put one pure, good, brave man 
between me and the Evil ! I do not care though he 
is poor and rough. I know he is good and true, 
noble and honorable! No gentleman in the land is 
more so. I can trust David Lindsay trust him 


utterly. He would never kiss me against my will 
never wound or offend me in any way. Yes, I 
will marry my old playmate, David Lindsay, and 
we will keep house in earnest as we used to do in 
fun. And then I shall be free free as air for I 
know that by the terms of my father s will, my 
guardian s power over me and my estate ceases on 
the day of my marriage. I know it, for I have often 
heard Aunt Agrippina say how thoughtless it was 
in my father to make such a proviso in his will. 
For suppose, she would say, some fortune-hunter 
should marry the child, you have no power to pre 
vent it, or to withhold her estates. That is the way 
I found it out. And I am glad it is so, for now I 
can marry David Lindsay, and enrich dear Dame 
Lindsay, and let them take me to one of my own 
fine houses and live with me in comfort. Or David 
might go to Harvard or Yale, and get the college 
training he has so long aspired to, and leave Dame 
Lindsay to take care of me. I will do it at once !" 

It is wonderful how swiftly the mind acts under 
excitement. This whole plan swept through the 
mind of Gloria in a few minutes succeeding the first 
inspiration of the idea. 

She did not now hesitate for an instant. She 
dressed herself quickly, and in the best and warmest 
suit she possessed. I said that she always dressed 
in the style of an old woman rather than that of a 
young girl. Now she put on a black velvet suit, a 
seal-skin sack and hat. The hat was the only girlish 
article she wore. Finally she drew on her brown 
kid gloves, took her muff and started for the door. 
But before she opened it she remembered that she 
would need more personal effects than she wore; so 
she laid down her muff, drew off her gloves, and 


went and found and packed a small Russian leather 
traveling-bag that had been her companion on her 
tour through Europe. This she hung upon her arm, 
then taking her muff, she left the room. 

On reaching the landing at the foot of the stairs 
she found Lamia engaged in brightening the knobs 
of the parlor doors. 

"Where is your master?" she inquired of the girl. 

"In de liberary, a tearin up and down de room 
like Old Black Sam was into him beggin yer par 
don for say in ob sich things, Miss Glo . Does you 
want me to go and tell him you d like to see him 
fore you goes out?" 

"No, not at all," replied the young lady. 

"Well, where shall I say you is gone, if he ax me, 
Miss Glo ?" 

"Tell him that I have gone to take a long walk, 
and he is not to wait dinner for me." 

"And when shall I say you ll be back, Miss Glo ?" 

"You needn t tell him when, for I don t know my 

"Well, so as you gets back fore sun-down, I 
s pose marse will be satisfied," said the unsus 
picious girl, as she resumed her rubbing of the brass 
knob then under her hand. 

Gloria then left the house to hasten on her mad 

She walked rapidly, like one still acting under a 
high pressure of excitement. 

She reached the boat-house, which was no longer 
kept locked. She passed through it and went out 
upon the beach, for it was now low tide. 

There she found a little boat that she had some 
times been in the habit of rowing, near the shore. 

Now she got into it, put down her hand-bag and 


her muff, unhooked the boat-chain and threw it 
ashore, took the oar and pushed the boat off the 
sands, then seated herself and rowed for the little 
sandy island. The water was perfectly smooth, and 
her arms were braced by a strange, tense resolve. 
She sped swiftly over the intervening half mile, and 
in ten minutes reached her destination. She drew 
in her oar, and using it as a pole, struck it into the 
sands and pushed the boat up on the beach. 

Then she picked up her hand-bag and muff and 
sprang ashore. 

For a moment she stood still, looking all around 
for a chance sight of David Lindsay; for maddened 
as she was at this moment, there was "method" 
enough in that "madness" to make her unwilling 
to go on to the cottage and meet the placid, steady, 
conscientious Dame Lindsay. 

She soon descried the young fisherman. He was 
standing on the shore at some distance, bending over 
an upturned boat, engaged in repairing it. His 
position prevented him from seeing, and the sound 
of his own hammer from hearing her approach, of 
which he remained quite unconscious even when 
she stood by his side. 

She had nerved herself for the trial before her, 
yet now it seemed as if all the blood had forsaken 
her extremities and curdled about her heart, so 
pallid was her face. 

She stood for a moment at his side while he con 
tinued to hammer industriously at his work, quite 
unconscious of her presence, until she spoke to him 
in a low tone. 

"David Lindsay." 

He started, dropped his hammer, turned, took off 
his hat, and stood waiting her commands. He had 


not seen her since the morning after he had saved 
her life, and now he was too much amazed at her 
sudden appearance on the isle to find any word by 
which to welcome her. He could merely wait for 
her to make known the object of her visit. 

For some moments she too continued silent. It 
seemed to her that it must take her life to utter the 
words which she had come resolved to speak, and 
with which this story opened : 

"David Lindsay, will you marry me?" 
It is not necessary to go over any part of that 
scene already related. It must be still fresh in the 
minds of our readers. 

Well might the young fisherman be struck dumb 
with amazement and terror; well might his half 
palsied tongue refuse to utter any word but her own 
name, and that in a tone of unbounded consterna 
tion ; for must not the lovely girl and wealthy heir 
ess have lost her reason before making a proposal 
of marriage to any man, least of all to him the 
poor, uncultivated young laborer? And when he 
had heard all that she had to say, well might he 
groan forth, in tones of deepest sorrow : 
"Miss de la Vera, it is you who are mad !" 
" <Mad T *Mad r " she echoed, her face reflecting 
the dismay so plainly revealed on his own counte 
nance. " *Mad ! Oh, indeed, perhaps I am ! But, 
oh, David Lindsay, if I am mad, so much the more 
need have I of your protection! If I am mad, oh, 
my old playmate, marry the poor mad girl to take 
care of her, to save her from herself, to save her 
from something worse than madness! to save her 
from sin! from crime! from murder! from suicide!" 
she exclaimed, her vehemence and wild excitement 
increasing with every word. 


"Great Heavens, Miss de la Vera ! What has hap 
pened to drive you to this extremity?" cried the 
young man, turning deadly pale, in dread of he 
knew not what. "Tell me all ! Everything, freely ! 
You know that my heart is yours my life is at your 
feet, to do your will with ! You know that I would 
do anything on earth you wish me to do, unless it 
would be to do you any wrong. Now you plead 
with me to do that which would make this world 
a paradise to me, unless it should make it a purga 
tory to you. Now tell me all. But first sit down. 
You are trembling so that you can scarcely stand," 
he added, as he threw off his pea-jacket, folded it 
and laid it on the overturned boat, to make her a 
comfortable seat. 

She sank down, mechanically, too absorbed in the 
subject of her thoughts to notice how he had ex 
posed himself to the cold for her convenience. 

That she might speak with the less embarrass 
ment, he stood a little behind her. And then, with 
her eyes fixed upon the ground, she told him all! 
And she ended with these words fearful words for 
her to speak and for her old playmate to hear : 

"And, oh, David Lindsay! you know how I al 
ways loved my uncle! loved him with the holy, ten 
der, caressing love of a child for its father! And 
I love him so still ! And I do pity him infinitely, be 
cause he suffers, and has always suffered so much ! 
But, oh, when he wants to marry me, I hate him, 
oh, I hate him with the hate of a demon ! I could 
kill him at such times! I could! I sometimes 
dream that I have married him and murdered him, 
and am flying from justice ! or that I am in a con 
demned cell, or on the scaffold, and I wake in a 
cold sweat of terror and horror. And it may come 


to this, David Lindsay ! It may come to this unless 
you save me ! I can trust you, my old playmate, I 
can trust you utterly! And to whom could I fly 
but to you? Who knows me so well as you? To 
whom am I so well known ? Whom have I on earth 
but yoa, David Lindsay? Do not stand behind me! 
Come around here and let me see you," she con 
cluded, slightly turning her head. 

"God forgive me if I do wrong ! God forgive me 
if this great temptation blinds me to the right!" 
murmured the young man as he left his position be 
hind her seat. 

And then not because she was a high-born heir 
ess stooping to him, a poor fisherman no, indeed, 
for there was nothing abject in David Lindsay s 
nature; but because she was a young girl driven to 
humiliation as unprecedented as it was undeserved 
-he came and humbled himself before her, sank on 
his knees at her feet, took her hand, bowed his fore 
head upon it and said : 

"See me here at your bidding. I am your own, 
your slave, to do your will in everything. Tell me 
what to do!" 

"Oh, David Lindsay, rise and sit beside me," she 
murmured, with the tears springing to her eyes. 

He obeyed her and waited for her further words. 

"Take me away from here at once, David Lind 
say ! Take me to Washington, where we can be mar 
ried. Then to my own house of Gryphynshold ! 
There I shall be safe! You know where that is?" 

"In Virginia yes." 

"Take me there, and from that place communi 
cate with my guardian, who must then come to a 
settlement and yield up all authority over me, or 


my estate; for such were the terms of my father s 

"The steamboat from Norfolk to Washington will 
stop at La Compte s Landing this afternoon. If we 
cross about now we will be sure to meet it," said the 
young man. 

"Then go and get ready for your journey at once, 
David Lindsay. I will sit here and wait for you. 
But what will Granny Lindsay say to your sudden 
departure? And, oh, what will she do, here by her 
self? I never thought of that before," said the girl, 

"Do not distress yourself, lady. All things work 
together for your will to-day ; for this morning my 
grandmother left home for the first time in many 
years, and for an absence of some days," replied 
the young man. 

"Granny Lindsay from home !" exclaimed Gloria, 
in surprise, not unmixed with a feeling of relief. 

"Yes, she is gone to St. Inigoes to keep house for 
the brethren until they can procure another house 
keeper in place of the one recently deceased. You 
know they will not take one under sixty years of 
age," added David, gravely. 

"Oh, I am so glad she will not be left alone here !" 
exclaimed Gloria. 

"Come up to the house, then, will you not, and 
rest in granny s room, while I go in my roost and 
make ready?" 

Gloria silently arose and followed him. 

When they entered the neat room, David placed 
a chair for his young guest, then put the brands of 
tire together on the hearth, kindled them to a blaze, 
and hung the tea-kettle over it. 

"Why do you take that trouble?" she inquired. 


"You must have a cup of tea before you go. It 
will not take any extra time, since the kettle will 
come to a boil while I am getting ready," he replied, 
as he went up the ladder stairs that led through the 
trap-door to his own loft. 

Gloria heard him walking to and fro, as he made 
his preparations for the unexpected journey. She, 
on her part, could not sit still. She felt as if she 
were in one of her nightmare dreams from which she 
could not wake. And again she felt as if she were 
going mad. 

A sweet, homely household sound aroused her 
from this morbid mood. It was the singing of the 
tea-kettle over the fire. A happy thought came to 
her. She would play housewife for David Lindsay 
this once before leaving the cottage. She had spent 
days enough in the little place to know where all 
the stores were kept. 

So she went first to the corner cupboard with the 
glass door, and opened it and found the little black 
tea-pot and the tin tea-cannister, and made the tea 
and set it to draw. 

Then she drew out the little red-stained pine 
table, found the white cloth and the buck-handled 
knives and forks and the plated spoons in the 
drawer, and arranged them, then took the cups and 
saucers and plates from the corner cupboard, and 
finally she went out to the "safe" in the shed, to 
which in her childhood s days she had so often fol 
lowed Dame Lindsay, and found bread, butter, milk 
and cold meat, all of which she brought and put 
upon the table. 

When her self -assumed task was completed, she 
sat down to wait, but felt too restless to sit long. 
Soon she arose and began to pace up and down the 


floor, when David Lindsay descended the ladder 
stairs, equipped for his journey, and carrying a 
large, black oil-skin bag in his hand. 

"Ah ! why did you weary yourself with this work, 
lady? I should soon have done it for you," he said, 
as he glanced at the completed preparations for a 

"Well, I wanted to do it. It is not the first time 
I have set the table for you and me, is it, David 
Lindsay? Don t you remember our little dinners, 
cooked with a driftwood fire on the beach? Don t 
you remember the flat stone we used to have for a 
table, and the crash towel for a tablecloth?" 

"Do I not?" he asked, as a warm smile irradiated 
his face. This was the first time she had seen him 
smile since her sudden appearance on the island. 

"Come and sit down, then, and I will pour out 
the tea." 

They placed themselves at the table, upon which 
she had already set the tea-pot. They made some 
pretence of eating and drinking, and then Gloria 
inquired : 

"Have we time to put everything in order before 
we go?" 

"Oh, yes," responded the young man, "quite time 

And together they went to work and cleared 
away the table, and washed and replaced the dishes. 

Next they took all the meat and bread and fish 
that was in the house and put it out in the shed, so 
that Priscilla and Nicholas, the cat and dog, might 
have something to eat during the week of Granny 
Lindsay s absence. 

Then David Lindsay covered up the fire, and 


locked up the house, all except the door by which 
they would go out. 

"Ah ! suppose Granny Lindsay should come back 
very soon?" said Gloria. 

"She will not come back before I have time to 
write her a letter, inclosed in one to the priest, and 
telling them both all about our position," said 
David Lindsay. 

"That is all, then. I believe I have no other 
anxiety/ 7 said Gloria, as they left the house to 

David Lindsay walked in advance, carrying his 
own large bag in one hand, and Gloria s little one 
in the other. 

Gloria followed, with her hands in her muff, and 
so they reached the sands where she had landed. 

"We shall have to use your boat, lady dear, since 
mine lies bottom upward on the beach, waiting for 
repairs/ 7 he said, as he placed the two bags in the 
skiff and handed his companion to a seat in the 

"It is uncle s boat ; but we can send it back by a 
man from La Compte 7 s Landing/ 7 replied Gloria, 
as her escort took the oars and laid himself stoutly 
to them. 

They first crossed the water to a landing on the 
main opposite the little island. David Lindsay 
pushed the boat up on the sands, and beckoned to 
an old negro man who was seen standing in the 
open door of his hut, and commissioned him or his 
wife to go across to the island every day to attend to 
the needs of Winny, the cow, and to the pig and the 
poultry ; and gave them the use of all the milk and 
eggs until Dame Lindsay s return. 


Then he pushed off and rowed away from the 

La Compte s Landing lay two miles down the 
coast, and it took a half hour s hard rowing to reach 
its wharf and boat-house on the sands. Above these 
the land, covered with a thicket of trees, rose 
abruptly for several hundred feet. From the midst 
of the trees on the summit might be seen the chim 
neys and peaked roof of La Compte s Lodge, and, 
farther down, the steeple of St. Luke s church. 

"This is my place also, David Lindsay, and it will 
soon be our place. But I would not live here. It is 
too near the Promontory," said Gloria, as they 

An old negro man stood by the flagstaff. 
"Gwine to take de boat, sar?" he inquired of the 
young man. 

"Yes," answered the latter. 

Whereupon the negro ran up the red flag. That 
was the signal for the steamboat to stop for passen 

"Dey s so few folks trabelin by water dis clem 
ent season ob de year dat it most don t seem much 
use to ploy a flagman to come down yer twice a 
week to tend it. But dey do tell me, better come 
ten times for noffin dan to let one passenger be dis 

"But couldn t passengers hoist the flag for them 
selves?" inquired the young man. 

"Dem as understood could; but it ain t ebery 
stranger as comes down here to take de boat what 
knows dey is got to raise de flag. An ? less de flag 
is riz, de boat won t stop, when it ain t got nobody 
on board to land here. And now, young marse, de 
boat ll be here in a foo minutes." 


"David, dear, come here, please," said Gloria, 
walking off to a little distance. 

He followed her and she placed in his hand a 
well-filled pocket-book. 

"What is this for?" he inquired. 

"For our expenses. I forgot to hand it to you 
before; forgot even that it would be needed; but 
you had better take it now, before we go on the 

He flushed crimson to the very edge of his black 
hair, as he gave her back the pocket-book and said : 

"No, lady, dear, I do not need it, indeed; I have 
saved something from years of labor, and I have 
plenty for our present needs." 

It was now Gloria s time to blush. 

"I beg your pardon, David Lindsay; I did not 
know, indeed I did not mean " 

But he interrupted her by lifting her gloved fin 
gers to his lips, bowing over them, and leading her 
back to the wharf. Then he went to the old flag 
man, and, giving him some money, engaged his ser 
vices to take back Colonel de Crespigney s boat to 
the Promontory pier, and leave it there. 

By this time the steamer was seen puffing its way 
towards the wharf. 

In a few minutes it drew alongside and stopped. 

A plank was thrown across to them and the two 
passengers went on board. 

A few minutes more, and the steamer was blow 
ing her way up the bay for the mouth of the Poto 
mac River. 

"You shall never repent this if my life can help 
it, lady, dear though it is for you a leap in the 
dark/ " whispered David Lindsay to the grave-faced 


child that leaned upon his arm, as they stood alone 
together on the deck of the steamboat. 

"No," said Gloria, "it is not a leap in the dark 
it is a spring into liberty and light." 


? Tis sure some dream, some vision vain, 

What I, the child of rank and wealth, 

Am I the wretch that wears this chain? 

G. M. L. 

THE sky was gray, the wind high, and the sea 
rough, yet David and Gloria remained on deck. He 
had led her to a bench behind the wheel-house, and 
there they sat, partly sheltered from the blast. 

As the old flagman had truly said, there were not 
many travelers by the steamboat at this inclement 
season of the year only a few country tradesmen, 
picked up at different points along the shores of the 
bay, who were taking time by the forelock and going 
to the Northern cities to purchase their spring 

All these were total strangers to Gloria and 
David; and as they lounged or sauntered, talking 
politics or smoking pipes, to and fro from stem to 
stern, on the deck, they scarcely bestowed a glance 
upon the young pair, seated behind the wheel-house, 
who, indeed, kept themselves aloof from all their 
fellow-passengers, until the ringing of the tea-bell 
brought them all down together into the ill-lighted 


Here Gloria found herself the only lady at the 
table, with a dozen or more men, officers and passen 
gers all counted ; but as the motion of the steamboat 
was now very rough, she took it for granted that all 
the other ladies who might be on board were con 
fined to their berths by sea-sickness. 

After tea the young couple returned to the deck, 
but found the weather too blustering for the girl ; 
so they went again to the saloon, but found that the 
table had been cleared of the tea-service anc 1 the 
men had gathered about it in parties of four to play 
cards, smoke and drink ; so finally they went to the 
companion-way leading below, and there David 
Lindsay bid Gloria good-night, for there was no ad 
mittance for him in the Ladies Cabin. 

When she reached this sanctuary she found that 
she was the only woman on board the steamer, with 
the exception of the stewardess. 

This latter came to proffer her services to the 
young lady. She was a wonderfully tall, black and 
spare specimen of the negro race. A striped gown 
and a high turban added to her unusual altitude. 

" Ebenin, Miss. Well, as yer s de only lady here, 
yer kin hab fus choice of dese here staterooms on 
each side de cabin," she said. 

"Is there any difference ?" inquired the girl with 
a smile. 

"Some is double and some is single, and dem 
in de middle is straight, and next to de stairs is 

"Well, you shall choose for me." 

"Den I vise you to take a double one in 
de middle." 

"Thanks," said Gloria. She did not then go into 
the selected stateroom, but she sat down in the 


rocking-chair and put her feet to the fire in the 

"Reckon yer s gwine back to school in de city 
arter the Christmas holidays?" ventured the 

"No," replied the young lady. 

"Den yer s gwine long your pappy to buy goods 


"To visit yer lations, den?" 


"Well, what on de face ob de yeth is yer gwine 
for?" bluntly inquired the stewardess. 

"On business," good-humoredly replied the girl. 

"Oh !" said the woman. 

There was silence for a few minutes, and then the 
woman began to murmur, partly to herself: 

"Now, I wonder what business can call a young 
gal to town at this unlawful season ob de wintry 
wedder in a cold steamboat?" 

As the young lady did not reply to this, the 
woman felt driven to say, more decidedly : 

"You looks moughty youngish for de like ob sich, 
and I d eben fink as yer ma or aunt would be goin 
wid you ; but is yer gwine to buy yer weddin close?" 

"Perhaps," said Gloria. 

"Dere! I did guess it, arter all!" triumphantly 
exclaimed the woman. 

Then, to stop further examination, Gloria de 
termined to turn the tables by questioning the ques 

"What is your name, auntie?" she hastened to 

"Laweeny Long, dough dey do mostly call me 
Long Laweeny, cause, yer see, honey, I is ober six 


feet tall, which can t be said for all the men, let 
alone wimmin. Lay-wee-ny Long, honey! One ob 
de La Compte colored ladies, honey, and been run- 
nin stewardess long o Cappin Bright ebber since 
my mist ess died." 

"You are Lavinia, one of the La Compte colored 
people?" questioned Gloria, in surprise. 

"Hi, what I tell yer? Yes, honey, one ob de La 
Compte colored ladies, I is. My mist ess was Miss 
Eleano La Compte, what married a speckled for 
eigner, which he was a great man in his own coun 
try, too, I b liebe! Howseber, he s dead, and so is 
she, and lef one only darter an heiress, my present 
young mist ess, dough I hab nebber seed her Miss 
Delia Werry." 

"Miss de la Vera, do you mean?" 

"Yes, honey, dat s zactly what I said. Miss Delia 
Werry. Does yer know her, honey?" 

"Not very well," replied Gloria, with a smile. 
"At least, I may say with truth that I don t know 
much good of her." 

"Now, look here, young gal!" wrathfully ex 
claimed Long Laweeny, "don t you go a back-bitin 
my young mist ess behind her back! Now, I tell 
yer good, don t you ! She s my young mist ess, she 
is, and what harm does you know of her, pray? 
Dere, now, what harm does you know of her?" 

"I did not say that I knew any harm of her ; and, 
moreover, if it will give you any satisfaction, 
auntie, I can tell you that I love Miss de la Vera 
very much, very much more than any one else in 
the world, I am afraid." 

"Den I m glad yer does. But what make yer say 
yer don t know no good o she?" inquired the 
woman, doubtfully. 


"Oh, I was jesting, you see, only jesting; for I 
have as much respect for Miss de la Vera as I have 
for myself." 

"Den yer nms know her right well?" 

"No, I m sure I don t, not half as well as I would 
like to know her. But now you say you belong 
to the estate. How comes it then that you are here 
as stewardess on this steamboat?" 

"Hi, honey, cause dere ain t been no use for me 
at de house since de stablishment was broked up, 
arter old Marse Cappin La Compte died, an de 
young ladies went to Washington to lib long o deir 
gardeen. Dat was about twenty years ago, honey. 
And all we young women servants w^hat belonged 
to de house w r as hired out at warious places, and 
only two or free old grannies left to look arter it, 
dough all de men field hands and fishermen and 
blacksmiths and carpenters, yer know, honey was 
left on de state, cause deir work was to be done, 
whedder or no, fambily or no fambily." 

"And have you been twenty years in this ser 

"No, honey, not quite. Only bout seben, I reckon. 
I was hired out at private service before that." 

"Do you like this life?" 

"I used to, honey, but I s gettin tired of it. An 
I s wishin for the time to come when my young 
mist ess, Miss Delia Werry, will come ob age or get 
married, so as to come and lib at home, an hab her 
colored people about her like oder ladies, I do." 

Gloria felt extremely interested in this old fam 
ily servant of her ancestors whom she had so unex 
pectedly met in the cabin of the steamboat, and so, 
without revealing her own identity to the woman, 
she encouraged her to talk of La Compte s Landing 


and the old people who had lived there in times 
past. And as "Long Laweeny" had so interested 
a listener she became very diffuse in her revelations. 

"They do say, Miss, that the first founder ob de 
family in dese parts was a brave ole sea-king, what 
his inimies and back-biters called a booknear or 
pirate, and how he buried whole shiploads of gold 
and silver about dese here shores an islands, which, 
if dat same treasure would be foun , it would make 
de people what owns de lan s as rich as Jews. But 
I don t know as to de trufe of it." 

These and many other tales and legends of the 
old family did Long Laweeny relate to her attentive 
listener, and so whiled away the time until a late 
hour, when Gloria thanked the woman for the en 
tertainment and retired to her state-room. 

Though the mind of the girl was deeply disturbed 
by the novelty of her present position, and the un 
certainty of her future fate, she did not lie long 
awake, but rocked by the motion of the boat, soon 
fell sound asleep and slept profoundly until she 
was awakened by the movements of the stewardess 
bustling about the cabin and setting it in order. 

On first opening her eyes she felt surprise and 
fear on finding herself in the berth of a state-room 
on a rocking steamboat; but instantly she remem 
bered the rash step that had placed her in this po 
sition, and her soul was filled with dismay. For a 
moment she repented her reckless flight, and con 
templated remaining on the steamer under the pro 
tection of Long Laweeny, and returning with it on 
its next down voyage to her home. Only for a mo 
ment did she think of such an alternative to going 
on and completing her other purpose. The vision 


of her uncle and his importunities frightened her 
from all idea of going back. 

"No!" she said to herself, "I cannot trust him. 
I can trust David Lindsay." 

In the spirit of this trust she met her old play 
mate on deck. 

He, too, had had his deep sleep of oblivion and 
his wakening to astonishment and perplexity. But 
no instant s doubt of his future course disturbed his 
mind; he was devoted to his lady s service, and de 
termined to do her will. In this spirit of loyalty 
he received her on deck. 

The wind had shifted to the northwest and 
cleared the sky of every cloud ; but it was now blow 
ing dead ahead, and so the boat had both wind and 
current against her, and her upward progress was 

Gloria and David had spent the day on deck, 
only leaving it to go to breakfast, dinner and sup 
per in the saloon. 

After supper they separated, as before, at the 
head of the companion-way leading down into the 
ladies cabin, where Gloria spent the evening in 
drawing out Long Laweeny to talk of the old La 
Comptes until bed-time, when she retired to her 
berth. The same evening David spent in talking to 
the officer of the deck until the hour came which re 
lieved the latter, and drew the former to the saloon 
state-room, which he shared with a country store 

It was sunset when she entered the mouth of the 
Potomac and near daylight when she reached Wash 

When Gloria awoke that morning the first thing 
that struck her was the stillness of the steamer, 


and the next a small fleet of oyster-boats, a crowded 
wharf, and a row of dingy warehouses all seen 
through the window of her state-room as soon as she 
slid back the shutter. 

Then she dressed quickly, for she knew the boat 
was at Washington. 

But again she was seized with that panic of 
dread which had temporarily overcome her on her 
awakening on the previous morning. Again she 
felt the impulse to fly from her purpose and return 
to her home while there was yet time. But the 
vision of her uncle in his madness arose before her 
mind s eye and checked her impulse. 

"No, I cannot trust him ! I cannot trust myself ! 
but I can trust David Lindsay!" she said, as she 
completed her toilet, put her little personal effects 
into her traveling-bag, and went up on deck. 

David Lindsay received her there and led her at 
once to the saloon, where the passengers were al 
ready at breakfast. She, being the only lady, re 
ceived much attention. Her seat had been kept for 
her, and dainties were pressed upon her; but so 
troubled was her spirit at the prospect of her fate, 
that she could only swallow a little coffee and make 
a pretence of eating. 

When the counterfeit meal was over, she arose 
from the table, bowed to her fellow-passengers, and 
left the saloon, attended by David Lindsay. 

"We may go on shore at once. I had already en 
gaged a carriage when you first came on deck," said 
the young man, as he led her across the gang-plank 
from the wharf, where the hack was waiting. 

He handed her in, saw her comfortably seated, 
and followed and placed himself opposite to her. 

"Where to, if you please, sir?" inquired the hack- 


man, touching his hat, as he held the door open in 
his hand. 

"Wait a moment," replied young Lindsay; and 
then he bent forward and whispered to Gloria : 

"You have been here before, and know the place. 
What hotel do you prefer ?" 

"Uncle and I stopped at Brown s. It was good 
enough, I suppose. I know nothing about the oth 
ers, except that some of them looked better on the 
outside," replied Gloria. 

"Brown s Hotel," was the order the young man 
gave to the hack-driver, who remounted to his box 
and drove off. 

David Lindsay had never been in any city in his 
life, and, therefore, he was much more pleased with 
his first sight of Washington than strangers usually 

"There is the Capitol !" he exclaimed, looking out 
of the window on the east side. "I know it by the 
picture, which is very faithful," he added. 

"Yes," replied Gloria, scarcely knowing what she 
said, so troubled was her spirit. 

The youth looked at her wistfully, doubtfully, 
sorrowfully. Then he dropped his eyes and voice 
to the deepest expression of reverential tenderness, 
and said: 

"Miss de la Vera, do you repent this trust you are 
about to repose in me? If you do, oh, speak ! I am 
yours to do you service. To secure your happiness 
in any way I may be permitted to do so! To at 
tend you all through life, if I may be so blessed 
or, if not, to take you safely wherever you would go, 
and leave you forever, if this should be your will," 
he added, as his voice broke down with emotion. 

She answered him by asking another question : 


"David Lindsay, do you really love me love me 
as you said you did that morning after you saved 
my life, when you did not know I heard you? Say, 
do you really love me as much as you said then?" 
she breathed, in accents scarcely audible. 

"Do I love you? How do I love you? How can 
I tell you! I have 110 words to tell you! But I 
know that I could live for you, work for you, suffer 
for you, yes, Heaven knows, I could give my body 
to be burned for you, if that could insure your wel 
fare. And because I love you so much more than I 
can tell you, I repeat now that I am yours to do 
your will, whatever it may be ; yours to attend you 
through life if I am to be so happy, or yours to 
take you to some place of safety wherever you 
would go, and leave you there forever, at your com 
mand. Dearest lady, you have only to command." 

She was weeping heartily now. 

He gently repeated his words : 

"You have only to command." 

"I cannot command anybody! Not even my 
self!" she sobbed. 

"What shall I do to console you? Did I not hear 
that Madame de Crespigney, the colonel s old 
mother, was in Washington? Shall I inquire for 
her and take you there, and leave you under her 
protection?" he asked, turning pale at the thought 
of what her answer might be, though no other sign, 
not even a falter in his voice, betrayed his inward 

"No !" exclaimed Gloria. "Take me there? W T hy, 
uncle would follow me. He would not compel me 
to return with him, but he would persuade me. 
Uncle masters my will when he pleads with me, 
and if I return to his power he may some time, in 


some paroxysm of his own distress, in some moment 
of my own idiotic pity, induce me to become his 
wife, and then, when I should have done so, I should 
go mad, and kill him or myself. No no no! I 
must put an eternal barrier between uncle and my 
self. David Lindsay, I cannot trust my uncle. I 
cannot trust myself. I can only trust you. Say no 
more about taking me anywhere but before some 
minister of the gospel. And" ( "don t make me do 
all the courting," she was about to add, but some 
subtile intuition warned her that she must not turn 
her tragic situation into jest, even with her trusted 
and faithful friend.) 

The carriage, meanwhile, had rolled on to Penn 
sylvania Avenue, and now it drew up before 
"Brown s." 

"Tell him to drive to the Ladies Entrance," whis 
pered Gloria, who saw that she would have to 
prompt her untraveled escort. 

The order was given and obeyed. 

David handed his companion down to the pave 
ment, and paid and discharged the carriage. 

"Ask to be shown to the ladies parlor. I can re 
main there until you go and find some minister, and 
yes, it will be necessary for you to get a license 
from the register s office at the City Hall," she con 
tinued, in a whisper, as they followed an obsequious 
waiter to an upper front drawing-room that over 
looked the avenue. 

Gloria threw herself into a chair. There hap 
pened to be no other occupants of the parlor, though 
people, either the inmates of the house or visitors, 
might enter at any time. 

"Will you want rooms, sir? The office is below," 
suggested the waiter. 


David Lindsay hesitated and looked at Gloria, 
who murmured : 

"No, do not take rooms yet. You would have to 
register our names, and that would be awkward 
just now. Wait until afterwards." 

"We do not want rooms, but will take luncheon 
about noon," said the young man, turning to the 
waiter, who then left them and went about his busi 

"How will you occupy yourself while I am gone?" 
inquired David Lindsay, uneasily. 

"Oh, you needn t be away half an hour. I shall 
stand here and look out of the window," she an 
swered, taking up her post. 

The young man left the room. 

She did not stand there long, for again some 
nameless horror of her position, and dread of conse 
quences, seized upon her soul, and drove her to 
walking rapidly up and down the floor, muttering 
to herself : 

"Was ever a wretched human being driven to 
such extremity as I am? Is there any way out of 
my trouble except through this strange marriage, 
and am I, all this time, so insane, as I suspect I am, 
that I cannot see it? Even David Lindsay pro 
posed to take me to old Madame de Crespigney, and 
David Lindsay worships me, poor boy, that I know ! 
But I cannot go to Madame de Crespigney ! I can 
not go anywhere where Marcel could follow me and 
subdue me by his pleadings, and draw me to my 
own destruction and to his ! I cannot trust Marcel ! 
I cannot trust myself ! I can only trust David Lind 
say ! And he is no clown, if he is a poor fisherman ! 
See how he has improved himself. He talks as well 
as uncle does, though he may not be able to speak 


on so many different subjects. But, oh, Heaven, 
what is all this to the main question? That I should 
be obliged to marry any one to save myself from 
uncle and from my own heart! I don t want to 
marry ! I don t ! I don t ! I don t ! I never did wish 
to marry ! I never meant to, either ! But if I must, 
I would rather trust David Lindsay than any one 
I know/ 

So, muttering to herself, she paced rapidly up 
and down the floor until the entrance of other ladies 
into this public parlor arrested her murmuring com 
plaints, though not her steps, for she continued to 
walk about the floor, stopping only once in a while 
to look out of the windows. 

Several of the occupants of the room noticed the 
pale, sorrowful, and restless "child," for such they 
took her to be, and formed their own theories of 
her distress. She was doubtless on her way to 
school, after her Christmas holidays, and was suf 
fering from the separation from home and friends. 
But these people had their own affairs on their 
minds, and so could bestow but little attention on 
the troubles of the supposed homesick school-girl, 
whom they hoped to see presently taken care of by 
her parent, or guardian, or some other responsible 
person who had come with her as her escort. 

For more than an hour Gloria walked restlessly 
about, or gazed from the front windows, while peo 
ple came and went to and from the room, whose oc 
cupants were thus always changing. 

Then at length David Lindsay returned. She 
drew him to a distant window, out of the hearing of 
all others, that he might give an account of him 

"I was longer than you thought I should be, be- 


cause I had to wait some time in the register s office 
before I could get our license. Afterwards I had 
to inquire out the residences of clergymen, and I 
called at several before I could find any one disen 
gaged. At length I found one at leisure the Rev. 
Mr. O Halloran, at St. Matthew s church. He will 
meet us there immediately/ 7 whispered David Lind 

Gloria began to tremble visibly. 

"Are you ready?" inquired the young man. 

"Yes," she answered, in a tone scarcely above 
her breath. 

He gave her his arm and led her forth, down the 
stairs and out of the house, to the carriage that 
stood waiting for them before the door. 

In another moment they were bowling rapidly up 
the avenue and turning into a cross street. A ten 
minutes drive brought them to old St. Matthew s. 
He helped her from the carriage and led her into 
the church, at whose lighted altar stood the priest 
in his vestments, attended by one or two sac 

In the front pew nearest the altar were three 
women at their devotions. 

As these were not the hours of public worship, 
there were no other persons in the church. Gloria 
wondered to see these present, but was too much 
troubled with other thoughts to speak of the cir 

David Lindsay, however, voluntarily enlightened 

"I told the priest, in answer to his questions, that 
we had no witnesses to bring with us. He then 
said that he would have to provide them. I sup 
pose he has done so, and these are they," he whis- 


pered, as he led his trembling companion up the 
aisle to the chancel. 

Two hassocks had been placed on the floor before 
the altar railings. Upon these they knelt. 

The priest opened his book and began the cere 
mony forthwith. 

The women in the front pew left their seats and 
drew near enough to hear the low responses of the 
bridegroom and the bride. 

The ceremony must have been relieved from all 
unnecessary forms, for it was very short, and very 
soon over. 

"I pronounce you man and wife. Those whom 
God hath joined together, let no man put asunder." 

The concluding words of the sacred marriage- 
rites, uttered in the sweet and solemn tones of the 
officiating priest, fell upon the ears of the unhappy 
girl like the knell of doom. 

The benediction was then pronounced, and the 
young pair arose from their knees. 



Wedded fast were we. 


"SALUTE your wife," said the priest. 

The young bridegroom turned to his wife his 
face all glorious with the noblest love that ever in 
spired the soul of a world-renowned poet or warrior 
and took her hand and drew her to his heart and 
bowed his head to offer her the customary kiss that 


was to seal the ceremony just performed between 

She did not yield him her lips she did not even 
leave him her hand, but shuddered and coldly with 
drew herself. 

David Lindsay turned deadly pale. 

The priest and the witnesses looked surprised. 
Such an exhibition of unkindness, not to say rude 
ness, they had never seen in all their experience. 

"Come into the vestry, if you please," then said 
the priest. 

David Lindsay, struck to the heart by his bride s 
repulsion, recovered himself by an effort, drew her 
arm within his own and followed the clergyman. 

The two sacristans and the three witnesses 
brought up the rear. 

The parish register lay open on the table. 

The newly married pair were now required to 
sign their names. 

David Lindsay steadied himself and wrote his in 
clear characters. 

Gloria s hand shook so in her attempt to write 
that the scratches and blotches she made might 
have meant anything or nothing. 

The witnesses affixed their signatures, and the 
deed was done. 

Then David Lindsay courteously thanked the 
priest and shook hands with him, leaving in his 
palm a very liberal fee. 

Finally, he drew the arm of his bride under his 
own to lead her forth. 

As he led her down the aisle, on their way out of 
the church, some whispered words among the three 
women who had witnessed their marriage, and who 
now followed close behind them, fell on his ears. 


"A runaway match, as sure as you are born, and 
the girl repents already. She looks like death, she 
does/ said one woman. 

"She s scared nearly out of her wits for fear her 
father or somebody will be after her," said another. 

"I declare I don t know how any conscientious 
minister of the gospel ever can find it in his mind 
to marry a runaway couple and such children as 
these are, too. I must say, I am astonished at Mr. 
O Halloran !" added the third woman. 

"Well, for my part," recommenced the first, "if 
one of my daughters should be so lost to all sense 
of propriety as to go off with any young man, I 
should be exceedingly thankful to the first minister, 
or even magistrate, who should tie them lawfully 

"To be sure, there is something in that, which I 
never thought of before," answered the caviler. 

David Lindsay drew his trembling companion on 
faster, in order to escape hearing any more of these 
unpleasant comments. 

He took her out and put her in the carriage, 
stepped in, and seated himself by her side and or 
dered the hack to drive back to the hotel. 

"Gloria, dear Gloria, my own dearest lady," he 
began, as he took one of her frozen hands. 

"DON T speak to me! DON T touch me!" she ex 
claimed, snatching her hand from his gentle hold, 
pulling her veil over her face, and tucking her head 
down in a corner of the cushions. 

"Ah ! what have I done to offend you, lady?" he 

"BE SILENT, I say ! And keep your hands to your 
self, unless you wish to kill me! But you may do 


that one thing ! You may kill me, if you like ! I 
wish you would !" 

"Great Heaven ! Gloria, what is the matter with 

"I am crazy ! crazy ! I told you I was crazy ! And 
if you do not leave me alone I shall go raving mad !" 
she wildly exclaimed, and then pushed her head 
down in the cushions again, as if she would shut out 
all sight of earth and heaven. 

David Lindsay sank back in his seat and turned 
deadly pale as he asked himself the question : 

What had he done to offend and alienate her? 
To fill her mind with such abhorrence of himself? 
He had obeyed her in everything. He had conse 
crated his life to her happiness. True, she was a 
rich heiress, and he was but a poor boy ; yet ? if their 
cases had been reversed, and he had been the 
wealthy man and she the poor girl, he felt that he 
would equally have consecrated his life to her. He 
loved her with his whole being, and since she had 
condescended to him, he had hoped finally to be 
come more worthy of her, and to win her love; for 
deep down in his soul he felt the prophecy that he 
should become worthy of her 

"Worthy as a king." 

But ever since, at the priest s command, he had 
offered her the bridegroom s kiss, she had shrunk 
from him in loathing. 

Was it possible after all, that the mind of hife be 
loved was unbalanced? That her reason was de 
ranged, and had been so at the time she had made 
her strange marriage proposal to him? Had he 
himself been culpably hasty, even criminally reck- 


less, in his acceptance of her offered hand? Had 
he unconsciously taken advantage of a poor child s 
lunacy to make her his wife? 

Indeed, the present aspect of affairs looked as if 
this must be the case. And if so, what earthly 
amends could he make her? How atone for the deep 
wrong he had done her? 

These were terrible questions, that he could in no 
way answer. 

While they still tortured his soul, the carriage 
drew up before the hotel, and the coachman left his 
seat on the box and came down and opened the door. 

Gloria s face was still tucked down out of sight 
in the corner of the carriage. 

"Come, lady, we have arrived," the young bride 
groom whispered, in a gentle and deprecating tone. 

She pulled her veil down closer over her face, 
doubling it so that not a feature could be seen, and 
then allowed him to take her hand and assist her 
from the carriage. 

David Lindsay, in his distress, forgot to pay the 
hackman and discharge the hack. But that func 
tionary jogged the memory of his employer and re 
ceived his own dues. 

Then young Lindsay led his companion into the 
house and up to the ladies parlor, when she left 
his arm and hurried away by herself to a corner, 
where she sat down in a large chair and hid her 
head in its back cushions. 

Meanwhile David Lindsay went down stairs and 
registered their names and engaged rooms. 

When this was done he came back to the parlor, 
accompanied by a waiter with a couple of keys in 
his hand. 

Leaving this man at the cLoor z laden with the two 


traveling-bags which had been pointed out, David 
Lindsay approached Gloria and whispered : 

"A waiter is here to take up your bag and show 
you to your room. Will you go now, and will you 
have some tea, or whatever you prefer, sent up to 

She did not answer by one word, but, shuddering, 
arose, peeped through a fold of her veil, and, seeing 
the waiter at the door, walked towards him. 

The man nodded, and led the way to a small suite 
of rooms on the same floor, consisting of a little 
parlor, chamber and bath-room. 

He opened these and put down the bags, and then 
struck a match and set fire to the kindlings already 
piled in the grates ready for ignition. 

Having performed these duties he turned to the 
lady and inquired : 

"Any more orders, madam?" 

"Madam!" echoed the girl, with bitter scorn, 
though in so low a tone that the word was nearly 
inaudible. "No, I want nothing; but, yes, you may 
bring me a cup of tea. My throat is as parched as a 
desert/ 7 

The waiter nodded and went out. 

"Now, what have I done!" exclaimed Gloria, as 
she tore off her gloves, her hat, and her sack, and 
threw them angrily on the bed. "Now, what have 
I done ! Oh, Marcel ! I will never, never, no, NEVER 
forgive you for driving me to this pass ! Oh ! how 
I hate you ! How I hate you for this, Marcel ! And 
I hate David Lindsay! And I hate myself worse 
than all ! My odious self ! I hate everybody ! And 
I wish everybody was dead ! I do !" she cried, fling 
ing herself down on the floor, and rolling and cry 
ing like a passionate child. 


It is of no use to repeat all her ravings. 

David Lindsay was more than half right in his 
surmises, and Gloria was really more than half in 

She was still rolling and crying on the carpet, 
when the shuffling steps of the waiter approaching 
the door, caused her to start up in time to answer 
his knock. 

She placed herself behind the door, opened it, 
put out her hand and took the little tea-tray, with 
out showing her own tear-stained face. 

She drank the tea with eager thirst, and then sat 
down the empty cup and threw herself on the sofa. 

"The cup that cheers," and so forth, seemed to 
do her good, and perhaps her fit of hysterical weep 
ing had temporarily exhausted itself, for she wept 
and raved no more, but lay, with her hands clasped 
over her face, in perfect stillness. 

An hour later there was a knock at her door. 
She started up and opened it, and David Lindsay 
entered the room. 

She recoiled to the farthest corner, and sat down 
and hid her head over the back of the chair. 

"Do not shrink from me. Indeed I will not in 
trude my presence on you more than is absolutely 
necessary," he began, in low and deprecating tones. 

But she shuddered and shrank into herself, more 
fearfully than ever. 

He sat down at some little distance from her, 
sighed heavily, because he could not help doing so, 
drew out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped 
his forehead, which was beaded with a cold moist 
ure, and paler now than it had ever been in his life 

"I only wished to discover, if indeed I can do so, 


through you, whether you really knew what you 
were about when you came to me on the beach, when 
you accompanied me to the city here, and when you 
gave me your hand in the church?" 

These words acted upon the motionless form with 
more power than a galvanic battery on a corpse. 

She sprang from her seat to the middle of the 
floor and, confronting him with a wild and agonized 
face, she exclaimed : 

"No, I did not know what I was doing! I was 
mad mad mad ! arid you ought to have known 
that I was mad to have done such an unheard-of 
thing. Oh, David Lindsay, if you ever loved me, 
have pity on me now and leave me ! If you have a 
spark of mercy in your soul, grant my prayer, and 
leave me. If you have the least instinct of honor, 
do not insist on keeping the position that my act 
has given you. If you are a man and not a mon 
ster, and not a maniac, leave me and never let me 
see your face again." 

He gazed on her in anguish and amazement. 
Then he arose from his chair, crossed over to the 
fireplace, and stood upon the corner of the hearth, 
with his elbow leaning on the mantel-shelf, and his 
hand supporting his forehead. His eyes were fixed 
upon the floor, his face was white as death, and 
looked older by a dozen years than it should be. 
Yet he was very firm and patient. Boy as he was 
but a few months past his twenty-first birthday 
he could never descend to the weakness of pleading 
his suit, and playing upon the sympathies of his 
beloved, as older and wiser men have done, and still 
do. No. If her love could not approve him, her 
pity should not accept him. He adored her with 
his whole soul. He had married her, yet lie would 


not persecute her with an unwelcome suit. But 
neither must he leave her now, in her childishness 
and helplessness. He must see her in some place 
of safety, and under some proper protection. 

Such were the thoughts that passed rapidly 
through his mind, as he stood on the corner of the 
hearth, with his elbows resting on the mantel-piece, 
his head leaning on his hand, and his eyes fixed on 
the floor. 

"David Lindsay, will you act the part of an hon 
orable man, and leave me at once and forever, or 
will you stay here and drive me furious?" she de 
manded again, in a voice of anguish. 

"Patience for one moment, lady. I will leave 
you as far as the next room and never cross this 
threshold again. This chamber shall be your sanc 
tuary. I will occupy the parlor. But I cannot 
leave you alone and unprotected in a strange city, 
dear. I must be on hand to take care of you, if 
needful. You are frightened now, Gloria. There 
is no need to be. I will not intrude. But we must 
have time to think what we shall next do." 

He spoke very gently. 

And now she was weeping aloud. 

He left the room at once. 

"Oh ! what a selfish and cruel wretch I am ! What 
a change has come over me! I have turned into a 
demon ! I must be a demon to hate those who love 
me! To hate them for loving me! Oh, I wish I 
were dead ! I wish I had never lived !" she sobbed, 
throwing herself down upon the sofa in an agony 
of self-reproach and self-loathing. 

David Lindsay walked up and down in the ad 
joining room, his steps noiseless on the soft carpet. 
He was sorely perplexed in mind and distressed at 


heart, only certain of two obligations resting upon 

him not to intrude on her privacy, yet not to de 
sert her in her weakness and distraction. She w r as 
but a child, he felt, a child who had grown up under 
very peculiar circumstances, so that she must not 
be judged as ordinary children or young girls. And 
what a heavenly child she had been! How full of 
love, how free from selfishness! Now she seemed 
indeed to have been driven into a state akin to in 
sanity. Had he, her old playmate, who loved her 
better than his own life, had any hand in this? He 
could not think so. He, with all his honesty of in 
quiry, could not see any other way than that they 
had taken to save her from an odious marriage, 
w T hich her religious faith would have condemned 
even if her own heart had not revolted against it 
a marriage into which she could not have been com 
pelled, of course, but into which she might have 
been, through her pity, persuaded. Now she was 
safe, at least from that danger. 

Meanwhile, what was now his duty to her? 

Not to intrude on her, and not to abandon her, 

But afterwards? 

He now remembered all that she had told him, 
while they sat together on the steamboat deck, con 
cerning her father s will, and how, on her attaining 
the age of eighteen, or on her marriage, she was to 
enter upon the possession of her estate, and the au 
thority of her guardian was to cease ; that this will 
had been made in Washington city, and recorded 
in the office of the Eegister of Wills. 

He determined to go thither and examine the 
document for himself. 

He rapped gently at Gloria s door. 


"What do you want?" she inquired, in smothered 

"I am going out for an hour. Shall I send any 
one to you? 7 

u No, thanks ; I want nothing." 

He turned away and went down stairs and out 
of the house, and bent his steps to the City Hall. 

On inquiring of the proper officers he obtained a 
view of the folio containing the record of the testa 
ment he sought. Having read it over, he thought he 
saw his way clearly enough towards placing his 
young bride in her own house, surrounded by her 
own servants, and safe from any annoyance from 
her late guardian. But he concluded that it would 
be better to take a lawyer s opinion. 

He had noticed, as he came along that morning, 
almost every front basement on the north side of 
Louisiana Avenue, opposite the City Hall, to be the 
office of some attorney-at-law. 

He therefore knew where to go to look for one. 

He left the building and crossed the street, but 
went into at least a dozen places without finding 
any one disengaged. At length, however, he paused 
before the last and plainest on the block, which 
bore the sign : "Patrick McLoughlin, Attorney and 
Counsellor at Law. 7 

He entered a shabby little room, where a very 
young and briefless lawyer sat at a dusty desk, and 
seemed to have no heavier labor on hand than the 
perusal of the morning paper. 

To this young fellow David Lindsay introduced 
himself, and stated his case, omitting only two cir 
cumstances that the marriage proposal had come 
from the lady herself, and that immediately after 
the ceremony she had repulsed him. The knowledge 


of these unusual facts was, however, not at all 
essential to the right understanding of the situa 

The young Irishman, with all the ardor and 
frankness of his race, heartily congratulated his 
client on having so successfully run away with an 
heiress; for that was the light in which he viewed 
the affair. He made no pretense of being busy, but 
announced himself ready to attend Mr. Lindsay at 
once. They crossed over together to the City Hall, 
and went to the Registrar s office, where McLough- 
liri read the recorded will, while David Lindsay 
stood by. Then he closed the folio with a rap, 
clapped his client on the shoulder, and exclaimed : 

"That s all right! Take the lady home to the 
finest house she possesses, my dear fellow, and tell 
the old guardian, if he comes bothering around, to 
go to the divil ; his consent was not necessary !" 

Not very elegant language to couch a lawyer s 
opinion in; but McLoughlin has improved since 
then, and now you would hardly find a more digni 
fied man at the Washington bar than he is. 

The young lawyer thought he had found a "big 
bonanza" in this fortunate young fellow, who had 
married an heiress, and so he charged him fifty 
dollars for his advice. ( He w r ould charge five hun 
dred for the same service now, bless you.) 

David Lindsay paid the fee without demur; but 
he was appalled, it reduced his funds so alarmingly 
low. He had left home with only two hundred dol 
lars the accumulated savings of ten or twelve 
years. Traveling expenses, and clergymen s and 
lawyer s fees had reduced it to less than a hundred 
already, and this circumstance warned him that he 
must lose no time in stopping expenses at the hotel, 


but must take Gloria to her home, while yet he had 
the means of doing so for he was resolved that he 
would not draw upon her resources. 

He took leave of young McLoughlin and walked 
rapidly towards their hotel. 

He went up stairs to their private parlor and 
rapped at her door. 

"Well?" she said, in a subdued voice. 

"Will you come out, dear, and let me speak to 

"Yes," she murmured, in a low tone; and pres 
ently she appeared, closed the door behind her, and 
sat down on the nearest chair. She did not wait 
for him to speak, but, with a dry sob, commenced : 

"David Lindsay, I am a lost spirit an evil spirit. 
I cannot help that. I have treated you unpardon- 
ably. I cannot help that, either I- " 

"Do not reproach yourself, dear. There is no 
thought in my heart that reproaches you," he an 
swered, gently, as he stood with his back to the win 
dow and with his eyes cast down, so that she should 
not see the trouble that he could not entirely banish 
from his face. 

"Ah, but I do and must. I feel how wickedly, 
yes, how basely I have acted towards you, David 
Lindsay, and am still acting, and must still act; 
but I cannot help it ! I cannot help anything. W T e 
must part, David Lindsay." 

"I know it, dear," he answered, in as steady tones 
as he could command, for he knew her sympathetic 
nature, and knew how much she would suffer from 
compassion if she should see him suffer. "I know 
we must part. It would be scarcely natural, scarce 
ly possible, that you should love me, to live with 
me. The ceremony of this morning must go for 


nothing, so far as I am concerned, but just this 
to be a shield and defence about you, to protect 
you from your guardian s suit and from your own 
heart s weakness that is all. When you are older 
and stronger, and able to do without it, the empty 
ceremony of this morning can be set aside, an 
nulled for, Gloria, the marriage rites, so sacred 
between souls that are already one, w T as but an idle 
and empty ceremony between you and me, and is 
good for nothing but a temporary defence to your 
helplessness. It has given me a husband s right to 
protect you before the world, Gloria, but I shall 
use it only as a brother. As a brother, I will escort 
you to your own home, Gloria, and establish you 

"And then?" she inquired, in a voice scarcely 
above her breath. 

"Then, dear, I will bid you good-bye, when I see 
vou safe." 



Stand up! Look below! 
It is my life at thy feet I throw, 
To step with into light and joy! 
Not a power of life but I ll employ 


"GRYPHYNSHOLD ! Take me to Gryphynshold ! 
that is the most remote of all the manors left me 
by my father. Take me there, for I wish to go as 
far as possible from all the people I ever knew be- 


fore !" said Gloria, in reply to David Lindsay s sug 
gestion that he should convey her to some one of 
her houses as to a place of refuge. 

They were still sitting together, where we left 
them, in the private parlor of the hotel, on the after 
noon of the day of their marriage. 

They were now conversing in a quiet and friendly 
manner on the subject of their approaching de 
parture, for they had resolved to leave Washington 
the same evening. 

Gloria was much more composed now than she 
had ever been since the hour of her marriage; for 
David Lindsay had assured her that he should never 
presume on the position she had given him, even to 
enter her presence uninvited. 

She had, from their childhood up, always loved 
and trusted him, and now that he had given her 
this promise, she implicitly believed him, and dis 
missed all her disquieting doubts. 

David Lindsay, meanwhile, magnanimously re 
pressed all exhibition of the bitter mortification and 
sorrow he experienced. He knew his little play 
mate too well to blame her. He knew her better 
than any one else in the world better than she 
knew herself. The poor little hunted and helpless 
fawn had flown to him for refuge, and he would 
succor her in the way she pleased, not in the way 
he had wished. 

She had chosen her place of refuge, and he would 
take her there. 

"Gryphynshold," he slowly repeated, when she 
had named the selected point of destination. "What 
a savage and gloomy name, dear! Where is that?" 

"The name is not more gloomy and savage than 


the place, I fear. It is situated in the extreme south 
western part of Virginia, on or near the point of 
juncture with North Carolina and Tennessee. It is 
said to be the most ancient building in all that re 
gion of country; it was erected in a gorge of the 
Iron Mountains by an eccentric and misanthropical 
Welshman named Dyvyd-ap-Gryphyn, said by some 
annalists to have been an outlaw in his own coun 
try and a refugee in this. However that might have 
been, or whether he had any legal right to the land 
or not, there, in the most terrific yawning abyss of 
the mountain range, he built a rude stronghold of 
heavy rock and ponderous timber, and called it 
Gryphynshold ; and there he lived, supporting him 
self by hunting and fishing, like any other savage 
denizen of the wilderness, and there at length he 
married an Indian girl of the Cherokee tribe. From 
that marriage sprang the race of Gryphyns a 
proud, surly, ferocious race of men, the bane of each 
other, and the terror of their neighborhood." 

"It is to be devoutly hoped that they were not a 
very numerous tribe," said David Lindsay. 

"No. I have heard Aunt Agrippina say that there 
was never more than one child born of any mar 
riage, and that was always a son. Strange, wasn t 
it, from generation to generation, only one son to 
succeed his father?" 

"Very strange; yet it precluded all possibility of 
law-suits among the heirs. But how came this ill- 
omened property into your father s hands, my dear 
little lady?" inquired David Lindsay, in a playful 
tone, assumed to hide the heartache that was tor 
turing him. 

"Oh, it was a dreadful, dreadful story. I do not 
know the details of it. But Mr. Dyvjd Gryphyn, 


the last descendant of the Welsh outlaw who 
founded the family, seems to have been a demon in 
human form, more haughty, surly, cruel and furious 
than any of his evil predecessors, yet withal as 
demoniacally beautiful and fascinating as Lucifer, 
Son of the Morning. After the death of his father, 
who was killed in a tavern broil, and of his mother, 
who dropped dead of heart disease on hearing the 
news for all these handsome and ferocious demons 
seemed to have been fondly loved by their unfortu 
nate wives Dyvyd Gryphyn left Gryphynshold on 
a tour of Europe. After an absence of three years 
he returned home, bringing with him a young 
woman, said to have been fairer than the fairest 
lily, more blooming than the rosiest rose. He loved 
her with the surly, jealous, cruel love of his nature 
and the nature of his fathers, which seems to be 
not so much love as a devouring and consuming- 
fire, the curse and ruin of all upon whom it chanced 
to fall. And she loved him with that fatality of de 
votion which was the doom of all the women ever 
chosen by the ill men of the race. She was content 
to bury herself with him in that savage solitude, 
remote from all human kind ; yet he did not seclude 
himself, but rode forth to distant towns and vil 
lages, and remained away for days and weeks to 
gether. Sometimes he would bring a party of men 
home with him, and they would hunt or fish all day, 
and carouse all night. But he never let any of them 
see his hidden beauty, who lived as isolated in her 
dreary prison as any enchanted princess in a fairy 
castle, until one night, in the midst of a midnight 
orgie, when his reckless companions were all mad 
with drink, and he himself was maddest of all, he 
sent and summoned her to the feast. The poor 


thing wasTiot a Queen Vashti, so she obeyed the 
drunken mandate, and came down. I do not know 
what happened there what she was forced to see 
and bear and hear but that she was grieved, 
shocked and terrified beyond all endurance is cer 
tain, for as soon as she could break away and es 
cape from the fiendish crew, she fled to the top of 
the house and hid herself, in a state of delirious 

Gloria paused and shuddered. 

"What became of the poor young woman?" in 
quired David Lindsay. 

"I do not know. No one knows what finally be 
came of her. The party of revellers broke up the 
next morning and Dyvyd Gryphyn rode with them 
to the next town and remained absent for a day, 
during which the poor little soul at home grew 

Again Gloria paused, and David Lindsay in 
quired : 

"And was there a reconciliation between this ill- 
sorted pair?" 

"I do not know. I never even heard whether he 
saw her again on the morning after the orgie, or 
whether he took leave of her before setting out on 
his journey with the revellers. She grew very quiet 
in his absence." 

Once more Gloria sank into silence. Once more 
the young man prompted her to continue, saying : 

"Well, and when this demon of Gryphynshold 
came back?" 

"Oh, David Lindsay, what next happened is so 
horrible so horrible that I shrink from speaking 
of it," she said, with a shudder. 

"Then do not, lady dear," he answered, gently. 


"Oh, but I must! It is on my mind and it must 
out ! I have heard that he came back in the middle 
of a January night a bitter cold, freezing night. 
His face, they say, was as black as a thunder cloud, 
and his eyes flashed like lightning. Without deign 
ing a word to one of the servants, who came to at 
tend him, he strode at once to the chamber of his 
poor young victim and ordered her to get up and 
dress herself, for she should leave his house that 
night !" 

"What an unheard-of monster !" exclaimed David 

"Oh, what a wretched maniac ! for no man in his 
senses would have acted with such causeless cruel 
ty. In vain the poor creature pleaded to know what 
she had done to offend him. He only cursed hei 
and threatened to throw her from the window un 
less she dressed and departed at once. In vain she 
wept and begged to stay till morning. He told her, 
with many fierce curses, that by this delay she only 
trifled with his temper and her own life. Oh ! oh, 
David Lindsay, he thrust that delicate creature 
forth in the freezing air of that bitter January 
night to perish on the mountains!" exclaimed 
Gloria, who had forgotten all her own troubles in 
recalling this horrible story. 

"And did she so perish?" mournfully inquired 
the young man. 

"I do not know. Some weeks from that night a 
party of hunters found the dead body of a woman 
on the mountain; but the birds of prey had found 
it first and it was unrecognizable! Oh, it is all too, 
too hideous! It was supposed to be the body of 
Dyvyd Gryphyn s victim, and, as she was never 
heard of afterwards, it probably was hers." 


"And what became of the madman? You were 
right in calling him a maniac, Gloria, for such he 
certainly must have been. You said that he was the 
last owner of Gryphynshold, therefore he must be 
dead. How did he die?" 

"Ah, like nearly all his fierce race! A violent 
death! On the very day after he had thrust his 
poor little white slave out into the winter night, he 
himself fell in a duel with one of the reckless com 
panions of his demoniac orgies of that terrible night 
when he commanded the hidden beauty to come 
into their abhorrent presence." 

"Killed in a duel at last," muttered David Lind 
say to himself. 

"Yee, and with him perished the last of the evil 
race of the Gryphyns of Gryphynshold." 

"How came your father to purchase such an ill- 
omened piece of property?" 

"It was advertised to be sold for taxes. Then an 
heir turned up in a Welsh baronet, who spelled Ms 
name in the more modern and civilized manner of 
G-r-i-f-f-i-n, but who was of the same original Welsh, 
stock, the next of kin, and the heir-at-law, though a 
very, very, very distant cousin. This gentleman did 
not want this mountain property, and so, as soon 
as his claim to it was established, he threw the es 
tate into the market, and my father bought it." 

"What could have induced Count de la Vera to 
buy suck a place?" 

"He was looking around for opportunities to in 
vest his money in Virginia lands, being determined 
to become a citizen of the United States. He thought 
the Iron Mountain must be rich in the ore that 
gave it its name, and rich in other ores as well ; and 
that this would be a source of great wealth to his 


wife and children in the future, if not immediately 
to himself ; for remember that my mother was living 
at the time of the purchase." 

"After what you have told me, dear, I question 
whether that would be a desirable residence for any 
one, least of all for you," said David Lindsay, 

"Oh, yes, it would. I particularly wish to go 
there. Ah, I know not why, but the very savage- 
ness of the place attracts me !" exclaimed Gloria. 

"Who is in charge of the house? Shall we find 
it habitable? Will there be accommodations for 

"Oh, yes, I suppose so," said Gloria, answering 
the last question first; "the place should be kept 
up; my father purchased it just as it was, with 
slaves, stock, carriage and horses, implements, fur 
niture, and everything. He even retained the hired 
white overseer and the housekeeper who had been 
in the service of the last owner. I know that Uncle 
Marcel used to receive their accounts and pay their 
wages twice every year." 

"So you have decided to go to Gryphynshold?" 

"I have determined to go there," said Gloria, 

"Then I must get a map and trace out our course 
as well as I can, and afterwards inquire about 

"I can tell you that ; for once during our summer 
holiday trips, Marcel and I, being in this city, 
planned to go and take a look at my mountain 
stronghold, as he called it. So we left Washington 
by the six p. M. stage-coach for Winchester; thence 
to Staunton, and thence to the Greenbriar White 
Sulphur Springs; but there we found the place so 


attractive that we went no farther. So I know that 
we must commence our journey by the stage that 
leaves here at six o clock in the evening. What time 
is it now? Let me see," she said, as she consulted 
her diamond-studded little gold watch. "It is half- 
past one. Now, please ring and order a carriage. 
I must go out and buy a trunk, a work-box, a writ 
ing-desk, a dressing-case, clothes, needles and 
thread, stationery, combs and brushes, and all such 
necessaries of a girl s life, before going into that 
remote mountain wilderness. And at the same time 
we can stop at the stage office and take our places." 

The young man answered by ringing the bell, 
and when the waiter appeared he gave the requisite 

Gloria went in her chamber to put on her sack 
and hat. 

The carriage was soon announced, and in five 
minutes afterwards the young pair were rolling 
along the avenue, Gloria looking out from the win 
dow to watch for the signs of the shops she wished 
to visit. 

Presently she stopped the carriage before the door 
of the only general dealer and outfitter in ladies 
ready-made garments that the city then afforded. 

David Lindsay left her there and went to book 
their places in the Winchester stage-coach. 

It took Gloria three full hours to drive from place 
to place and collect all she wanted. She found 
them all without leaving the avenue, however. She 
had the trunk put on behind the carriage and ihe 
goods all piled within it, to save time by taking 
them to the hotel herself. Finally she reached her 
rooms at about five o clock and spent half an hour 
in diligent packing. 


David Lindsay then came to take her down to 
dinner, which they had scarcely finished before the 
stage-coach called to claim them. 

In those slow days stage-coaches did not start 
exactly on time, as railway trains are supposed to 
do now. I have known a stage-coach to wait twenty 
minutes while John C. Calhoun and Henry Clay 
leisurely finished their breakfast before taking their 
seats to leave Washington at the end of a session 
of Congress. 

Our young pair did not keep the coach waiting. 
They soon had their luggage brought down and be 
stowed In the boot, and soon after found themselves 
comfartably seated, the only passengers except two 
returning country dealers who had been East to 
purchase goods for the spring trade. This class 
indeed formed the bulk of travelers at this season 
of the year. 

It was dark when the coach started on its long 
and wearisome journey. 

There was neither moon nor stars out, for the 
sky was quite overclouded, so that there was no 
temptation for the passengers to gaze abroad as 
the stage-coach rattled over the newly macadamized 
avenue on through Washington, Georgetown, Ten- 
nalleytown to Eockville, where it changed horses, 
and where one of the travelers left them and an 
other one took his place. 

When the coach started again, Gloria curled her 
self up in her corner and tried to go to sleep, for 
she was in no way interested in the conversation 
concerning the dullness of the trade and the un- 
punctuality of debtors which the country merchants 
had forced upon her companion. 

Hocked, or fatigued, by the rolling of the cumber- 


some old coach, Gloria was soon fast asleep, and 
she slept through the whole night, undisturbed ex 
cept by the stoppage at the post-houses to change 

At sunrise they reached Leesburg, where they 
stopped to breakfast and to change coaches, taking 
the Winchester coach. 

They rode all day through the most beautiful 
passes of the lesser Blue Kidge and reached Win 
chester in the Valley in time for an early tea. 

Here again they were to change coaches and take 
the S taunt on stage. 

David Lindsay would have prevailed on Gloria to 
stop and rest till morning, but she was determined 
to pursue her journey. 

They had but an hour here before the starting of 
the Staunton coach, and Gloria made the most of 
her time to refresh herself by a wash and prepare 
comfortably for her second night s ride. 

After an excellent tea, for which their wintry 
day s journey had given them a keen appetite, the 
young travelers took their seats in the Staunton 
coach and recommenced their journey. 

And this second night, poor, disappointed David 
Lindsay slept as soundly in his seat as did the will 
ful beauty, Gloria, in hers. 

Not even the stoppage of the coach, to change 
horses, amid the flashing lights of the roadside post- 
houses, or the getting off of old passengers and 
climbing in of new ones succeeded in arousing them, 
for if disturbed they would draw a long breath, 
slightly change position, and drop asleep again. 

They never opened their eyes until the stage 
coach stopped at Woodstock, when the tumultuous 


getting out of their fellow-passengers at once fully 
awakened them. 

Then they saw that the sun was at least an hour 
high, and that the horses were being taken from 
the coach before a spacious hotel in the principal 
street of a country town. 

"What place is this?" drowsily inquired David 

"Woodstock, sir, where we change horses and get 
breakfast/ answered the guard. 

David handed his sleepy companion from the in 
side of the heavy old vehicle, and led her into a 
pleasant parlor, where their fellow-travelers were 
already gathered around a large, open fireplace, in 
which a glorious hickory wood fire was blazing. 
The party there made room for the young lady. 

But she did not stay with them long. A neat 
colored girl came up to her and respectfully whis 
pered the question as to whether she would not like 
to go to her room before breakfast. 

Decidedly Gloria would like to do that very 
thing. So she arose and followed the girl, who 
lifted and carried the young lady s traveling-bag 
to a spacious chamber over the parlor, with white 
dimity window-curtains and bed-spread, and a fine 
fire blazing up the open chimney-place. 

The girl supplied the young traveler with warm 
and cold water, fresh towels, and every other req 
uisite for the toilet informing her, meantime, that 
she had half an hour before breakfast 

Gloria was glad. She sent for her trunk to be 
brought up, and had a thoroughly refreshing toilet, 
with a full change of dress. 

Then, as fresh as if she had risen from a comfort 
able bed, instead of coming out of a lumbering 


stage-coach, she went down and joined her fellow- 
travelers at a delicious breakfast of coffee, hot rolls, 
buckwheat cakes, venison, quails, ham and every 
dainty of the season. 

After the breakfast, half their fellow-passengers 
entered with them into the Staunton coach. (The 
other half had diverged in various directions.) 

Their way now lay down the great valley of Vir 
ginia, with the Blue Eidge mountains on the east 
and the Alleghanies on the west a paradise of 
beauty in the summer, and a fine country even 
when covered with snow, as it was n ,, in mid 

By nightfall they reached Staunton. 

Gloria was much fatigued, and again David 
Lindsay implored her to rest for one night. 

But Gloria, willful as ever, was bent upon going 
on until she should reach the end of her journey. 
That extreme bourn, the "Hold" in the Iron Moun 
tains, on the confines of three States, possessed a 
weird attraction like the lodestone, and drew her 
on and on. 

"It is like a place in a dream a place in a night 
mare but it fascinates me all the same," she an 
swered to the expostulations of David Lindsay. 

After a substantial supper, finished with strong 
coffee, the travelers who were to go farther took 
seats in the changed coach, and began the third 
night s journey towards Lexington. 

Again, as before, the two young people slept 
throughout the ride, only, being still more fatigued, 
they slept more soundly than ever, and only awak 
ened when, at sunrise, the coach drew up at the 
hotel in the main street of the little town of Lex- 


ington, and their fellow-passengers began to climb 
over them in getting out. 

Here they stopped for an hour. A refreshing 
wash, a substantial breakfast, ard a brisk walk up 
and down the village street, restored the strength 
and spirit of the wearied young pair, so that they 
re-entered the lumbering old coach without any re 
maining oppression from fatigue, and well pre 
pared to enjoy the day s ride through the varied 
scenery of hill and dale, woods, waters, fields, 
farms, towns and hamlets that diversified the val 
ley that k * between the two great ranges of moun 
tains. > 

Towards evening the valley narrowed and the 
mountains rose until the road seemed to be ap 
proaching a gorge. 

While there was yet light enough, David Lind 
say drew a pocket map from his breast and began to 
examine it. 

"If our journey takes us through that yawning 
chasm, I think we had better stop for the night at 
the first tavern we come to," suggested the young 
man, thinking more of the safety of his companion 
than of his own. 

"No ! where the coach can go, we can go, night 
or day," persisted Gloria, 

It was dusk when they reached the gap they had 
seen so far before them. There was a great stone 
building on a river that broke through the moun 
tains at this point. The water reflected the high 
precipices and the buildings with their gleaming 
lights. The place was a combination of tavern, 
post-house, mill and ferry. 

Here they stopped to change horses and get 
supper, after which the coach, with its passengers, 


freight and horses, was ferried across the river to 
the other side, and then it took the road beneath the 
shelter of the snow-clad mountains, and kept it, 
plodding along slowly for the rest of the night. 

But we must not dwell too long on this pic 
turesque journey. 



But there no more shall human voice 
Be heard to rage lament rejoice 
The last sad note that swelled the gale 
Was woman s wildest funeral wail. 


FROM this point, however, they had left the lovely 
landscape of the valley and entered as by a natural 
gate into the wild mountain scenery, that, as they 
went on, grew wilder, more dreary and desolate. 

They were two more days and nights on the road, 
stopping at irregular intervals to change horses at 
wayside post-houses, located just where it was pos 
sible to put them, or to breakfast, dine and sup at 
roadside taverns or little village hotels, until at 
the close of the fifth day from starting on their 
wearisome journey, they reached a ferry on the 
banks of a narrow, deep and rapid river, on the op 
posite side of which arose a lofty range of dark, 
cedar-covered mountains. 

Here their stage journey ended. 

They loft the coach, had their baggage taken, and 
entered the ferry-house. 


The coach, after changing horses, went on its 

Gloria and David Lindsay found themselves in a 
homely parlor, with bare walls and bare floor, a 
few flag-bottomed chairs and a pine table. The 
only ornaments were a defaced looking-glass be 
tween the windows and a framed picture of old- 
fashioned sampler-work representing a willow-tree 
over a tombstone, hung over the mantel-piece. 

It was, however, heated by a roaring fire of great 
cedar logs, for cedar was the most plentiful wood 
in that mountain region, and it was lighted by two 
tall tallow-dips in iron candlesticks. 

David Lindsay drew forward a chair and placed 
it before the fire for his weary companion, and then 
went out to find the landlord, ferryman, or some 
other responsible party. 

After an absence of a few moments he came back, 
and said: 

"Now, dear, I have two plans to propose to you. 
Choose between them. Mr. Cummings, the land 
lord here, has no conveyance except a heavy wagon 
drawn by mules, which he says is the safest sort 
for these mountain roads, and in which he is will 
ing to send us on to Gryphynshold either to-night 
or to-morrow morning. The accommodations here 
are very rude and plain, as you see. You may judge 
what the upper rooms are by this, which I suppose 
is the best. Now it is for you to decide whether to 
go on to-night or to stay here and rest till morning 
and take the daylight for your journey to Gryphyns 

"Oh, let us go on at once ! Where the mules can 
take the wagon, surely we can go," promptly re 
plied Gloria. 


David Lindsay went out and gave the order. His 
exit was followed by the entrance of a colored girl, 
who respectfully invited the young lady to go up 
into a bed-room where she could lay off her wraps 
and refresh herself while the supper and the wagon 
were getting ready. 

Gloria willingly followed her, and took the bene 
fit of all her offered services. 

Then, feeling much better, she slipped a piece of 
money in the poor girl s hand and went down stairs, 
where an excellent supper awaited them. 

Whatever the mental troubles of the young pair 
might be, the long journey over the snow-clad and 
frozen roads, and through the pure, exhilarating air 
of mid-winter had given them fine, healthy appe 
tites, and they both did full justice to the coffee, 
corn-bread and venison steaks that were set before 

Immediately after supper they entered the heavy 
wagon, into which their luggage had already been 
placed, and settled themselves to continue their 
journey to Gryphynshold. 

"Mind, Tubal," called the landlord to his negro 
driver, "you take the lower road ! It is the longest, 
but it is the safest." 

"Yes, sar," responded the darkey. 

"And when you get to the DeviPs Backbreaker be 
sure to jump off and lead the mules all the way up, 
or there ll be an accident. Do you mind?" 

"Yes, sar." 

"And when you come to Sinking Creek, be certain 
to look out for the water -post, to see if it is low 
enough to ford." 

"Yes, sar." 

"And when you get up to Peril Ledge get off and 


lead the beasts again ; and mind you be very care 
ful ! I don t want another broken neck broughten 
back here for a crowner s quest." 

"No, sar." 

"Now, then, start, and mind what I tell you." 

"Yes, sar/ said Tubal, and as he slowly set his 
mules in motion, he muttered to himself: " Tain t 
de dangers ob goin ? dere to old Grippinwolf 
omphe! no! I don t mind goin dere, but as to 
stayin dere all night to res de mules no, sar! 
not Tubal!" 

"What are you talking about, old man?" inquired 
David Lindsay. 

But by this time they had reached the edge of the 
river, and Tubal s whole attention was engaged in 
driving his mules on to the great flat ferry-boat, 
upon which stood four men with very long poles 
to push it over. 

Nothing more was said until after they had 
reached the other side and Tubal had driven the 
wagon off the boat on to a road running between 
the front of the precipice and the river. 

"What is the matter with old Gryphynshold that 
you would not stay all night in the place?" again 
questioned David Lindsay, whose interest in the 
ancient house had been deeply excited by the story 
of the last owner. 

"What de matter long ob Grippinwolf, you ax? 
Now, look here, young marster, I dunno who yer is, 
nor what yer arter comin up here to Grippinwolf, 
whar no decent Christian hasn t been visitin in de 
memory ob man ! But you jes take a fool s advice 
an turn right square roun an go right straight 
back whar yer come from. Don t keep on to Grip 
pinwolf," said the old man, solemnly. 


"Why shouldn t we go on? What is the matter 
with Gryphynshold, I ask you again?" inquired 

"Debbil s de matter wid it, young marster, jes de 
debbil ! Not as I d mind dat so much, if it war on y 
de debbil, cause we read so much about him in de 
catechism dat he feels like a ole acquaintance ob 
ourn nateral like on y we don t want to fall in 
his hands. No, I don t mind him so much; but 
dere s heap wuss dan de debbil as ails old Grippin- 

"What is it, then?" inquired David, interested, in 
spite of his better reason. 

The old negro paused, as if to give full effect to 
his words, and then solemnly replied : 

"Dead people!" 

" Dead people ! echoed David Lindsay, in 

"Ooome !" groaned the old man. 

"How can the dead trouble the place?" inquired 
the young man. 

"Ooome!" groaned the negro. 

"What do they do? They lie quietly in their 
graves, do they not?" 

"Ooome! Hush, honey! I wish dey did!" 

"What do they do, then?" 

Again the negro paused to give full effect to his 
words, as he mysteriously replied : 

"Dey walks !" 


"Yes, honey, de dead people walks in Grippin- 
wolf walks so continual dat dey won t let any 
body else lib dere." 

"Why, Mrs. Brent, the housekeeper, lives there!" 


exclaimed Gloria, putting in her voice for the first 

"What say, honey?" inquired the negro. 

"I say the housekeeper, Mrs. Brent, lives there." 

"Who? Her?" exclaimed Tubal, in such a tone 
of scornful denial that Gloria hastened to add : 

"She does live there, does she not?" 

"Ole mist ess lib in Grippinwolf? Ooome! Yer 
better jes ax her to lib dere, dat s all !" 

"Then the housekeeper does not live in the house, 
if I understand you aright?" said Gloria, in un 
pleasant surprise. 

"Hi, what I tell you, honey? Nobody can t lib 
dere mong de dead people!" 

"What nonsense you talk, old man. Some one 
must live there to take care of the house." 

"Well, den, dey don t, young mist ess, an I tell 
yer so good ! De ghosts has jected everybody out 
ob dat house, and dey has had it all to deirseJves 
dis twenty years or more." 

"Then my guardian has been completely de 
ceived! He has been paying a salary to a house 
keeper who has abandoned her duties. And if the 
house is deserted, as he says, what shall we do, 
David Lindsay?" inquired Gloria, in a tone of in 
dignant distress and perplexity. 

"Turn right roun an go straight back whar yer 
come from ! You do dat while times is good. Dat s 
de wice what I gibbed yer fust, an dat s de wice 
Avhat I gib yer last," said Tubal, answering for his 

"Is there no one on the place to receive us, then?" 
inquired David Lindsay. 

"Oh, dere s de oberseer, in his own house, bout 
quarter ob a mile dis side ob Grippinwolf Hall; but 


Lor*, de people bout here don t call de place Grip- 
pinwolf no more dey calls it Ghost Hall. 7 

"Where does the housekeeper live?" inquired 
David Lindsay. 

"Oh, she she libs at de gate lodge. She moved 
dere when she was dejected by de ghosts." 

"Now, Gloria, we have not ridden more than two 
miles from the ferry. What would you like to do? 
Turn back, as the old man advises, and stop at the 
ferry for the up coach and take our places for the 
North, and for some other home of yours more Con 
venient and attractive, or go on to this?" earnestly 
inquired David Lindsay. 

"Oh, go on to Gryphynshold, by all means. Since 
I have heard the supernatural tales told by this 
old man, which well supplement the horrible stories 
told me by Aunt Agrippina, I am more than ever 
determined to go on to Gryphynshold. The over 
seer can certainly give you a bed in his cottage 
for to-night, while I shall stay at the gate lodge 
with the housekeeper " 

"And as for me," put in the old negro, "soon s 
ebber I gets to dat same gate-house, which won t 
be fore midnight, I gwine to lop you all right down 
dere an turn right round and dribe my mules 
straight home ag in. All de money in dis univarse 
wouldn t hire ole Uncle Tubal to take up his lodg 
ings long ob de dead people ! Leastways, not till 
I s dead myself!" 

"You can do as you please," said David; "but tell 
us what gave rise to these ridiculous stories?" 

"What rised em? Why, de ghosts rised em! 
De ghost ob dat ole Satan s demon son, Dyvyd 
Grippinwolf, who murdered de booful young ooraan 
as he stole away from her friends an fotch to his 


own DebbiPs den up yonder. His unquiet ghost 
rages up and down all night, rushin t rough de 
halls and up de stairs, a slammin and a bangin 
ob de doors like a ravin mad bull. And no bolts 
or bars ebber strong enough to keep him out. Dat s 
de one what tarrifies people clean out n deir senses, 
young marster, I tell yer good." 

"Is old Dyvyd Gryphyn s ghost the only hob 
goblin that haunts the hold?" inquired David Lind 
say, with a smile. 

"Lor , no ! Why, dere s crowds of em sometimes. 
All de wicked, wiolent, furious old Gryphyns as 
ebber libbed dere which none ob em ebber died 
in deir beds, yer know all ob dem died wiolent 
deaths holds high jubilee-la! dere ebbery night 
long ob all de debbils out n de pit ! Hush, honey ! 
Dat ole house up dere is de werry mouf ob de black 
pit ob Satan ! An ef anybody was to xamine, I 
reckon dey d find de deep, dry well in de cellar was 
nuffin less dan a way down into dat same black pit 
ob Satan ; and all debbils do come up an down it 
to hold high jubilee-la! along with all de wicked, 
furious ole ghosts ob de Gryphyns!" 

"Has any one ever seen any of these dreadful 
orgies?" inquired David Lindsay, with an incredu 
lous laugh. 

"You may laugh, young marster," said the old 
negro, in an offended tone; "but ef yer persists in 
goin an stayin at dat ole debbiFs den, you ll 
laugh on t other side ob your mouf, I tell yer good." 

"Has any one seen any of these horrible 
spectres?" reiterated David Lindsay. 

"Hi! What I tell yer? Didn t Mr. Oberseer 
Cummings and Mrs. Housekeeper Brent bofe see 
an hear dem? An didn t de ghost deject dem out n 


de house? An I, my own self, wid my own eyes, 
a comin from de mill one night, passed in sight 
ob dat ole ghostly house. De night was dark as 
pitch! Dere was nyder moor nor stars, an I 
couldn t hab seed nuffin only for my eyes gettin 
use to de dark, yer know. An I did look up to 
de ole ghost house, standin way up dere on de 
mountain, straight an black, against de dark sky, 
an I couldn t see no windows fust, but all of a 
sudden I saw all de windows in de front ob de black 
looking house!" 

With this culmination of horror, old Tubal made 
an awful pause. 

But as no one made the expected exclamation of 
astonishment the old man inquired: 

"Now, how does yer fink I saw all de windows 
in dat dark, deserted house on dat dark night?" 

"Heaven knows!" said David Lindsay. 

"Want me to tell you?" 


"By de light ob de ghosts eyes !" 


"By de light ob de ghosts eyes, sure as I m a 
libbin sinner ! Dere was a ghost at every window, 
an at some windows dere was two or free, bofe men 
an women ghosts. An every one ob deir eyes was 
a shining like an inward fire an lightin up all de 
windows !" 

Again the narrator made an awful pause. 

Gloria was evidently impressed by his story. Not 
so David Lindsay, who quietly asked: "Had 
you taken anything to drink that evening old 

"Who? Me? Don t suit me, young marster ; I m 
a Son of Tempunce, an a brudder in de Beth el um 


Methody Meeting" said the old man, in dignified 

"I beg your pardon, I really do/ replied David 
Lindsay, with frank courtesy. 

"I did gib yer de bes Vice in my power, not to 
go nigh dat debbiPs den ! But course you ll do as 
yer likes. No offence, young marster." 

" Why, you see this lady is fully determined to go 
on there," David Lindsay explained. 

"Yes, I am," added Gloria. "All that I hear of 
that old house only serves to confirm my resolution 
to go on and see it. We can find accommodations 
with the overseer or the housekeeper for this one 
night, David Lindsay, and then to-morrow we will 
have the old stronghold of ghosts, goblins and 
devils thrown wide open to the light of heaven, 
and see if we cannot exorcise them. We will make 
a thorough investigation, David Lindsay, for I have 
quite resolved to take up my abode, for the pres 
ent at least, in that goblin-haunted house, and I 
feel that, in doing so, I am right." 



There is so foul a rumor in the air, 
The shadow of a presence so atrocious, 

How could a human creature enter there, 
Even the most ferocious? 


"WELL, young marster, the road turns right 
here," said the driver, drawing up his mules. 


David Lindsay looked out of the wagon. 

On his left lay the dark river, with the snow- 
covered valley beyond it. 

On his right towered the stupendous precipice 
of the Iron Mountain, cleft down from summit to 
base, showing a ravine of wildly shattered rocks, 
bristling with clumps of stunted cedar trees, all 
dimly seen in the darkness of the winter night. 

"You don t call that a pass, do you?" inquired 
David Lindsay, incredulously, peering out into the 

"Dat s de road, young marster, sure s yer born. 
Yer better look at it good, fore yer make up yer 
mind to try it." 

David Lindsay drew in his head and spoke to his 

"Look out and tell me if you still persist in going 
on," he said. 

"I will look out just to please you, but I am bent 
on going on !" she replied, as she came forward and 
gazed up the ravine. 

"Well?" inquired young Lindsay. 

"Well, it looks threatening very! But I said 
that I was bent to go on ! Where the mules can go, 
I can go," she persisted. 

"Drive on!" exclaimed the young man to the 

Tubal did not "drive," however. He slowly de 
scended from his seat and came to the mules heads 
and led them on. 

It was well, perhaps, that the heavy wagon-cover 
concealed the terrors of the road that otherwise 
must have been discovered even through the dark 
ness of the night, and daunted Gloria s uncon- 
quered spirit. 


After a precipitous descent and the crossing of 
the stream, the young travelers in the wagon be 
came conscious that the road was rising diagonally 
up the mountain side. 

When they had ascended some considerable dis 
tance, David Lindsay put his head out to peer 
through the shadows and survey the scene. 

He found that they were climbing a steep, narrow 
road on the face of the mountain, with a towering 
precipice on their right and a falling one on their 
left, and no room for any vehicle to pass that 
should chance to meet the wagon. 

He drew in his head and was careful to say noth 
ing to his companion of what he had seen. A single 
start of the mules a misstep a balk would be 
destruction to man and beast for over and down 
the face of the precipice they would go. 

Higher and higher they climbed, and climbed for 
hours and hours. 

Then they began to descend slowly and heavily 
for perhaps an hour longer. 

Finally old Tubal pulled up his mules, stood to 
recover his breath, and then came to the front open 
ing in the cover of the wagon, and said: 

"Well, young rnarster, here we is at the gate 
lodge o Ghost Hall, or DebbiPs Den, whichebber 
yer likes for to call it. I ll let yer out here, young 
marster, for I tell yer good, no money yer could pay 
down to me would duce me to pass t rough dem 
dere gates ob hell !" 

"Come, come, Tubal, don t use such strong 
language before a young lady," said David Lindsay, 
as he descended from the wagon and helped his 
companion to alight. 

"I don t use no stronger language than what de 


good book uses anyways. Help me to lift de trunk 
out, young marster." 

"Let us see first whether there is any one up in 
the gate-house/ 7 said David Lindsay, as he left the 
side of the wagon. 

Then he suddenly stood still gazing. 

The sombre scene around them had a weird 
glamour that spell-bound him to the spot. 

"What place is this?" he muttered to himself. 
"It is like a place seen in a dream. It might be a 
place in some other planet, in some dead earth, or 
extinct sun !" 

It was an awful scene ! Mountains rose on every 
side, their bases clothed with dark forest. 

Nearer and dimly visible under the overclouded 
night sky, towered hideous black rocks, and dark, 
spectral pine trees that seemed to take goblin 
shapes in the obscurity. Far back on the right 
hand, from the midst of these, and scarcely to be 
distinguished from them, loomed the roof and chim 
neys of Gryphynshold. 

The utter silence as of death that reigned over 
all, added to the gloom, approaching horror, of this 
stupendous scene. 

David Lindsay turned from it with a feeling of 
superstitious awe, to the formidable iron gate in 
the stone wall that ran along the old park on the 
right hand of the road. 

The gate was not locked, but hung heavily upon 
its strong, rusty hinges, shut by its own weight. 

On the right of this gate some outlines of an old 
lodge could be dimly seen among clustering cedar 

But no light appeared to indicate where door or 
window might be. 


"De old 7 oman has gone to bed hours ago, most 
like/ pleasantly remarked the wagoner, as David 
Lindsay passed through the iron gate and the wild 
thicket of cedar bushes and rapped at the door of 
the dark house. 

"Who is there?" almost immediately inquired a 
voice from within. 

"Nobody to hurt yer, ole mist ess!" shouted 
Tubal, who was leaning up against a post of the 
gate, utterly refusing to enter the haunted grounds. 
"Nobody to hurt yer, ole mist ess ! Yer knows me 
Tubal Cummings, from Wolf s Gap Ferry. I 
done fotch a young lady and gempleman here 
what s come to wisit yer." 

There was a sound of movement in the dark 
house, and presently a light gleamed through the 
joints of the windows, and soon afterward the door 
was opened by an elderly woman, who stood on the 
threshold, bearing a flaming tallow candle high 
above her head, and exclaiming: 

"Uncle Tubal! Do you say you have brought 
visitors here at this place, at this hour of the night? 
Who are they, and what do they want?" 

"Dat s jes what dey mus splain for deirselves, 
Mistress Brent. Yer don t catch dis ole chile comin 
in dere to tell yer!" exclaimed the man, beating a 
retreat to the shelter of his wagon. 

"Tell her precisely who we are, David Lindsay. 
Tell her the exact truth," said Gloria, coming to his- 

Young Lindsay went up to the housekeeper and 
Gloria followed closely. They could not see the 
face of the woman, for the candle she held aloft cast 
her into deep shadow. 


"Let me introduce myself and this young lady, 
madam " 

"Who are you, then?" abruptly interrupted the 

"This is the young lady of the manor. You will 
probably recognize her when you look at her, 
though I hear you have not seen her since she was 
seven years old. I have the honor to be her hus 
band, and my name is Lindsay," replied the young 

"Gra-cious Heav-ens!" cried the woman, lower 
ing the candle, and holding it closely under the 
stranger s nose, to the great danger of his silky 

"Look at me, Mrs. Brent, and see if you can re 
member me," said Gloria, with a smile. 

The candle was quickly transferred from the 
danger of singeing David s mustache to that of 
scorching Gloria s nose, as the old housekeeper 
peered into the girl s face. 

"Ye-es. N-no. I don t know. I see something 
in the eyes like, but " 

The old woman stopped and put the candle so 
close to the girl s brow that Gloria started and 
shrank back. 

"Pray do not keep the young lady standing out 
here in this bitter cold. She is already chilled and 
weary. Let us come in. We expected to find you 
at the house yonder. But that being shut up and 
deserted, we must beg shelter from you even here," 
persisted David Lindsay. 

"Oh, yes, to be sure. Come in. I did not get 
your letter, indeed I did not, sir, or I should have 
been ready for you. But you see Wolf s Gap 
that s the nearest post-office is a long way off, 


and we never send there except four times a year, 
when Mr. Cummings, the overseer, sends in his 
quarterly reports. I didn t get your letter to say 
you were coming. I am very sorry, ma am, that 
there is nothing better than this poor house to ask 
you to, but such as it is, you are welcome," said 
Mrs. Brent, as she led the young pair into a large 
room, in which a great fire of hickory logs smoul 
dered luridly in the deep, broad chimney-place. 

She lighted a second candle and placed both on 
the mantel-shelf, and then took from a large deal 
box near the chimney corner a handful of dry 
brushwood and put it under the smouldering logs, 
kindling them into a ruddy blaze. 

Finally she placed two chip-bottomed chairs be 
fore the fire and invited her visitors to be seated. 

"So sorry I did not get your letter, indeed, sir," 
she repeated, as she once more stirred the fire. 

"We did not write. There was no time. We 
made up our minds rather suddenly, one day, to 
come down here, and we started the same evening," 
said Gloria, as she leaned back in her chair and 
stretched her half-frozen feet and hands to the 
genial blaze. 

"Oh, indeed, then, I feel so relieved ! Of course, 
you could not have expected to find the house pre 
pared for you, and are not disappointed," exclaimed 
Mrs. Brent. 

"I am sorry to say that we are rather so ; for we 
expected to find you living up at the hall, and some 
rooms at least kept in readiness for just such a con 
tingency as this," replied Gloria. 

"Living up at the other house! Oh, young lady, 
you don t know ! But I ll say nothing about that 


now. I am so grieved not to have things comfort 
able for you here !" 

"Never inind never mind!" exclaimed Gloria, 
good-naturedly. "To-morrow is a new day, and 
everything can be arranged then. As for to-night, 
we are both so tired with our week s ride that I 
think we could rest comfortably in any motionless 
place. I shall remain here with you, and Mr. Lind 
say will get our wagoner to show him the way to 
the overseer s house, where he proposes to lodge." 

"But that is such a pity, to separate you two! 
Though, indeed, I have got only one bedroom the 
one above this there are two beds in it. I and 
my niece sleep in one. The other is vacant and at 
your service, ma am, if you don t object to sharing 
our room with us," said Mrs. Brent, apologetically. 

"Not at all ! I shall be so glad to lie down any 
where after sitting up for a week," answered 

"But you would like some supper, sir?" inquired 
the housekeeper, turning to David Lindsay. 

"No, I thank you. We had supper at Wolfs Gap, 
and we only need rest. Gloria, I will go out and 
speak to the wagoner, and see if he is ready to guide 
me to the overseer s house. I will also get him to 
help me in with your trunk," he whispered, as he 
arose and left the room. 

Gloria now, for the first time since her arrival, 
looked at the apartment and its occupant. It was 
a large, rude place, with a bare, flagstone floor, 
bare, unplastered stone walls; in front a heavy 
oaken door, flanked by two large windows, whose 
very sills were stone; a ceiling with heavy rafters 
crossing it, and finally, the immense, yawning fire 
place, with its iron dogs supporting the great, 


smouldering hickory logs from whence the light 
blaze of brushwood had already died away. 

The furniture was as rude as the room heavy 
oaken chairs and tables, a spacious dresser with 
broad shelves reaching from the floor to ceiling, 
and furnished with all the crockery ware, cutlery, 
tin, pewter, and iron utensils of the little menage. 

In another corner a tall, coffin-like old clock 
stood, with its foot on the flagstone floor, and its 
head to the rafters. A rug of home-made rag car 
pet lay before the fire, and mats of a similar ma 
terial lay before the front and back doors. 

That was all. It was a rude, plain room. 

From the contemplation of the place Gloria 
turned to the inhabitant. 

The latter was a tall, thin, dark-skinned woman 
with small, deep-set black eyes that had a watchful, 
sidelong, frightened glance, like those of a person 
who had suffered one overwhelming terror and was 
continually looking out for another. Her hair was 
quite white and parted smoothly over her forehead, 
and confined by a close white linen cap tied under 
her chin. She wore a long, narrow, black gown, 
without a scrap of white about her neck or hands. 

"This is a poor, rude place for you to be in, Mrs. 
Brent. Surely not to be compared with the com 
fortable apartments that must have been assigned 
you in the manor house," said Gloria, compassion 

"Oh, young lady, don t mention the manor house. 
Don t ! You don t know ; you can t know. But I ll 
say nothing more about that now. Here comes the 
gentleman." David Lindsay had pushed open the 
door, and was coming in, holding one handle of the 
trunk while Tubal Cummings held the other. 


They sat it down on the floor, and Tubal imme 
diately bolted, flinging behind him these words: 

"I ll wait for yer outside the gate, young marster. 
I can t stay here, indeed !" 

David Lindsay laughed, saying : 

"I had the utmost difficulty in persuading that 
old man to help me with the trunk. I had at length 
to bribe him heavily before he would venture to do 
it. And what do you suppose he means to do, after 
leaving me at the overseer s?" 

"What?" inquired Gloria. 

"Go all the way back to Wolfs Gap to-night." 

"I know he declared that he would do so; but I 
did not think he would keep his word," replied 

"Now, dear, in mercy to the old fellow who has 
such a long way to return, I must bid you good 
night. You, also, need rest so much that you had 
better go to bed as soon as possible." So saying, 
David Lindsay took her hand, pressed it and left 
the lodge. 

The old housekeeper stared. 

"Is that the way your husband takes leave of 
you? I never did! I really never did !" she said. 

"We understand each other," said Gloria, smiling. 

"Well, if you do, I suppose that is enough," mut 
tered Mrs. Brent, who all this time was busy beat 
ing up eggs with sugar in a bowl, while something 
spicy simmered in a saucepan before the fire. 

Now she took the saucepan and slowly poured its 
contents over the beaten eggs in the bowl, stirring 
thoroughly with a spoon as she poured. 

Then she filled a tumbler with the pungent and 
fragrant compound, and gave it to Gloria, saying 


"Take this, honey. It is as nice a glass of spiced 
mulled cider as ever I brewed n my life. It will 
warm you all through, and drive out any cold you 
may have caught." 

Gloria smiled, and thanked her kind hostess, and 
took and sipped the spicy beverage which she found 
delicious in taste and delightful in effect. 

The housekeeper filled a second glass for herself, 
and sat down and sipped it for company. 

"I should have offered to make some for your gen 
tleman, honey, only as he was going out in the cold 
again it would have done him more harm than good. 
Besides, to tell the honest truth, I don t think such 
indulgence in drink is good for young men anyhow. 
They begin with cider, and are too apt to end with 

Very much revived and comforted, Gloria 
finished her mulled cider and put her glass upon 
the mantelpiece. 

"Now, then, dear, we will go up stairs to bed," 
said Mrs. Brent, placing her own glass beside the 
other one, and blowing out one candle and taking 
the other. 

"Are you not going to lock the door?" inquired 
the visitor. 

"Law, child, why? There is no one to molest us 
except those that no locks can keep out. How 
ever, I ll do it to please you," said Mrs. Brent, 
going to the door and turning the key. 

"Thank you very much," said the young lady. 

"You re welcome, honey. Now, then, come to 
bed," she added, as she led the way through the 
back door to a narrow passage from which a stair 
case ascended to the upper room. 


Gloria picked up her carpet-bag and followed her 

The room above was of the same size with the one 
below like that, the walls were of hewn stone, 
unplastered, but the floor was of heavy oak planks. 
There were three large windows in front, all hung 
with coarse blue and white plaid cotton curtains. 
There was a fire-place, a size smaller than the one 
below; a pine table, with a small standing looking- 
glass on it, under the middle window, opposite the 
fire. There were two beds in the corners of the 
room, with their low head-boards immediately 
under the two end windows, on each side of the 
rude dressing-table. 

One of these beds was smoothly made up, as if 
waiting its occupant. The other was tumbled and 

"Come here," said Mrs. Brent in a whisper, going 
towards the latter. 

Gloria followed her and beheld the sleeper, who, 
in some restlessness, had thrown off the cover, re 
vealing her head, breast and arms. 

She was a very young girl, with a delicate face 
and fragile form, fair, transparent complexion, 
blooming rosy-red on cheeks and lips, very light, 
golden-red hair clustering in glittering tendrils 
around the white forehead and roseate cheeks, and 
with petite features. She would have been a per 
fect little beauty but for some irregularities that 
were even more piquante and charming than any 
classic perfection could possibly be. First, her 
dark brown eyebrows were of the fly-away pattern, 
depressed towards the bridge of the nose and raised 
towards the temples. Her tiny nose, no bigger than 
a baby s, was the most dainty, yet the most decided 


pug that ever was seen. Her upper lip was short, 
and her chin pointed. The whole character and 
expression of the fair, dainty, petite face, was sly, 
roguish, mischievous, not to say impish and malign. 
One arm, the under one, as she lay upon her right 
side, was drawn back with crooked elbow and 
clenched little fist. The other arm, the upper one, 
was thrown over the pillow, also with crooked 
elbow and clenched little fist. The attitude of the 
little sleeping beauty was a belligerent one. 

"Now that s my niece Philly Philippa, you 
know, ma am and that s the way she always 
sleeps. Just like a kitten or a puppy that is dream 
ing of a fight. Now just you watch!" 

With these words, Mrs. Brent took hold of the 
shoulder of the sleeper, exclaiming : 

"Phil! Phil! Wake up! Move farther! You ll 
tumble out of the bed !" 

The sleeper gave a little growl and a great 
bounce, and threw herself over on her other side, 
striking another aggressive attitude, and imme 
diately relapsed into deep sleep. Gloria could not 
help laughing as she said : 

"She is very pretty and very good-humored, I am 
sure, notwithstanding that she dreams of fights !" 

"Oh, yes, she is a good girl enough, but an awful 
trial for all that!" 

"Your niece, you said?" 

"Yes, my niece," repeated the housekeeper, as she 
covered the sleeping girl and set the candle on the 

Then, while the two undressed and prepared for 
bed, Mrs. Brent volunteered some further informa 

"You see there s a good many Cummingses round 


about here, of a good old Scotch family, too. Did 
you never read of the Red Comyns and the Black 
Corny ns in your school-books, honey?" 

"Oh, yes!" 

"Well these Cummingses are of the same old clan. 
I was a Cummings myself before I was married. 
I am a lone widow now, you know." 

"Yes, I have heard so." 

"Well, I had three brothers. Alexander, who is 
the landlord and ferryman and post-master down 
at Wolfs Gap; and Ralph, who is your overseer 
here; and last of all, poor Cuthbert, my youngest 
brother, who was the father of this girl, Philly. 
He used to drive the stage between Wolfs Gap and 
Hill Top in North Caroliny, but he and his wife 
have been in heaven this many a day. Philly used 
first to live with Aleck at Wolfs Gap. I, having 
no children of my own and being lonesome like, 
have adopted the orphan. And a great charge she 
is to me! Why, ma am, I had rather undertake 
ten boys than one such girl. She rides the wildest 
horses ; she hunts the worst game. Yes ! She rides, 
shoots and hunts like a wild Indian! And even 
dreams of it when she sleeps." 

"I shall like Philly! I am sure I shall like 
Philly! There is something in her," exclaimed 
Gloria, as she got into her own bed and drew the 
cover closely up around her neck, for it was keenly 
cold up in these mountain regions, so that the great 
wood fire scarcely sufficed to warm the room. 

The housekeeper blew out the candle and laid 
herself down to rest. 

Gloria, utterly prostrated with her week s ride, 
no sooner laid her head upon the pillow than she 


dropped into a deep and dreamless sleep that lasted 
until far into the next morning. 

When she awoke, at length, the sun was shining 
in through the blue and white checked curtains. 

She looked around in some confusion on the rude, 
unplastered walls and ceiling, the bare oak floor, 
and the unpainted wooden chairs and table, quite 
unable to remember where she was; but in a few 
moments memory returned, and she understood the 

There was no one but herself in the room, which 
was now restored to perfect order, the other bed 
being made up, the fire replenished, the hearth 
swept, and fresh water and clean towels placed on 
the rude dressing-table. 

"They have all got up and left me to sleep my 
fatigue off, I suppose," she said, as she left the bed 
and began to make her plain morning toilet. 

She was soon dressed in a dark blue cashmere 
gown, with white linen cuffs and collar, and a black 

Then she went down stairs and found Mrs. Brent 
in the lower room, and seated before the fire en 
gaged in carding wool. 

"Good-morning, honey! You have had a real 
good sleep, and I hope it has done you good!" she 
said, rising, and placing a chair to the fire for her 
young guest. 

"Indeed I have, Mrs. Brent; thank you. It must 
be very late." 

"Look at the clock, my dear. It is after ten. 
Well, I am glad you slept so long. I would not 
have disturbed you if you had slept all day. Now 
you are down I will get you a bit of breakfast in a 
few moments," said Mrs. Brent, as she took up a 


tea-kettle which was sitting on the hearth before 
the fire, and hung it over the blaze, where it imme 
diately began to sing for boiling. 

"Has any one I mean has Mr. Lindsay been here 
this morning?" inquired Gloria, 

"Oh, yes, honey. Mr. Lindsay and my brother, 
the overseer, you know, were here by seven o clock 
this morning; but Mr. Lindsay wouldn t let you 
be disturbed on no account. He asked me to keep 
everything very quiet, so as to let you sleep as long 
as possible, which I am sure I have done, my dear," 
replied the housekeeper while she was taking the 
tea-pot and the cannister from the dresser to make 
the tea." 

"Where are they now?" inquired Gloria. 

"Oh, they went right off up to the old house to 
open and air it. Yes, more than three hours ago," 
answered the dame, as she made the tea and set it 
to draw. 

"When will they be back?" 

"Well, when they have done the job, I guess ; but 
I don t know when that will be," replied the dame, 
as she took two dressed partridges from a plate 
on the shelf, and laid them over the fire. 

"You see," she added, as she took a cedar board 
about the size of a shingle, and plastered one side 
of it over with a thick corn-meal batter, and put it 
before the fire, propped up by a smoothing-iron. 
"You see, they will have to open all the doors and 
windows from cellar to garret, and kindle fires in 
every fire-place that will take them pretty much, 
all day." 

"Well, I think, if you will kindly direct me, I will 
walk up to the house as soon as I have taken break 


"I would advise you not to go yet awhile, honey," 
said the housekeeper. 

And now she became so busy laying the cloth, 
then turning the johnny-cake, putting the crockery- 
ware on the table, then turning the partridges 
flying quickly from hearth to cupboard, and from 
cupboard to fire-place that Gloria could keep up 
no sustained conversation. 

"Now, then, sit up and take your breakfast, my 
dear," said Mrs. Brent, when she had at last got the 
frugal morning meal upon the table. 

"These partridges are delicious," said Gloria, 
when, with an appetite whetted by the keen moun 
tain air, she had eaten a half of one. 

"Yes, that s some of Philly s game! She shot 
them on Saturday. The imp is good for something. 
Only you see, honey, when she goes out I am always 
in a dread that she ll never get back alive. Maybe 
never be heard of again until her bones are found 
bleaching on some rocky ledge!" 

"Oh, how dreadful ! You ought not to entertain 
such dismal thoughts!" 

"I can t help it, honey, when that girl goes on as 
she does!" 

"Would you have such fears for a boy?" 

"Lord, no ! My nephews, Ralph s boys, go hunt 
ing almost every day and keep the hotel down there 
at Wolf s Gap supplied with game; but they are 

"Well, and she s a girl." 

"But they know how to take care of themselves." 

"And so does she, I have no doubt, a great deal 
better than they do. I like Philly. I am sure I 
shall like her very much. Where is she now?" 

"Oh, gone out with her gun and dogs. What do I 


tell you? WLen she isn t about some mischief she 
is dreaming of it." 

"I am her debtor for a delicious breakfast. I will 
not hear her blamed. I like Phil better the more I 
think of her. I admire her all the more for having 
such a dauntless spirit in such a little, fragile 

Gloria had scarcely spoken these words when 
there was a sudden and tumultuous entrance of a 
girl in a cap, jacket, short skirt, and long boots, 
Avith a game-bag slung over her shoulders, a fowl 
ing-piece in her hands, and a couple of dogs at her 

She set her gun down with a ringing clank in the 
corner, then pulled her game-bag off and threw it 
on the floor at the feet of the old laay, exclaiming: 

"There auntie! There s a treat for your dinner! 
Eight brace of birds, and all bagged in less than 
two hours ! Say ! have you got any fresh meat for 
2Eneas and Dido? Good dogs! Good dogs!" she 
continued, patting the heads of a fine pointer and 
a finer retriever. 

"My dear, don t you see a lady present?" said the 
housekeeper, in an admonishing tone. 

The girl seemed to see the lady for the first time. 
She fell back a step or two, dropped her chin upon 
her chest, turned up her eyes shyly, and put her 
finger in her mouth like a stupid and awkward 
child in the presence of a stranger. 

"Mrs. Lindsay, this young person is my naughty 
niece, Philippa." 

"I am glad to see you, Miss Cummings," said 
Gloria, who could not help thinking all that awk 
ward shyness was just put on for the fun of the 


"My name is Phil. I don t know myself by any 
other name, 7 replied the girl, giving her hat a push 
that cocked it on one side of her curling, salmon- 
colored hair, and gave an additional air of impish- 
ness to the mischievous face beneath. 

"Then I am even gladder to see you, Phil! 
Gladder than I should be to see Miss Cummings. I 
hope we will be friends. Shall we, Phil?" 

"I don t know maybe I think so if you don t 
begin to put on airs with us," slowly and conde 
scendingly replied the elf. 

"I hope I shall do nothing so silly. Why should 
you suspect me?" 

"Oh, I know you are our young lady of the 
manor, and have come with your fine husband, who 
is a very great man indeed, to take possession of 
everything! If the ghosts up there will let you. 
Ah !" said the imp, with a malign leer in her beau 
tiful, long, light blue eyes. 

"I am truly sorry, but I am really not to blame 
for being your lady of the manor. It was a provi 
dential arrangement in which I was no more con 
sulted than I was about being born. I hope you 
will forgive me for finding myself in such an ob 
noxious position, and be my friend," said Gloria, 
with a good-humored sarcasm that seemed to win 
the impish creature before her. 

"I don t know what I can do for you. I don t 
know how to be anybody s friend unless I can do 
something for them. I can do nothing for you but 
keep you in birds and hares and such. That is not 
much. They are so plenty in the forests below 
here," said Phil, thoughtfully. 

"That is much more than I shall be able to do 
for you." 


"I don t want anybody to do anything for me, and 
what s more, I won t have it. I want to do all the 
doing myself." 

"Oh, you proud little sinner! Well, there is 
something I want you to do for me right away. 
You know the path up to the house. Will you show 
it to me?" 

"Yes, I will go there with you, but not right 
away ! I must feed JSneas and Dido first, auntie I 
I know Uncle Ralph slaughtered an ox last week 
and sent a lot of beef. I want a couple of pounds 
of sirloin for my dogs, and I am going to get it," 
said the elfish being, throwing off her cap and 
hurrying out of the back door. 

"Now that s the way, honey, she always does! 
She s going to feed them dogs with the best meat 
in the house!" complained the old lady. 

"Well, the dogs have helped her to provide the 
finest game," said Gloria. 

"Ah, I see, my dear, you are going to encourage 
that girl ! I see it quite plain ! Well, I wish you 
would take her altogether as a seamstress, or house 
keeper, if it were possible she could be either, or 
in any way she could be useful or entertaining to 
you ; for, indeed, I am anxious to get her away from 
this sort of a wild life that keeps me always in a 
fever !" 

"Perhaps I may take you at your word, Mrs. 
Brent, if Phil is agreeable; but what would you do 
without her?" 

"Oh, first-rate! I would take Marthy, Aleck s 
youngest daughter! She s older than Phil, and is 
a first-rate spinner and weaver and seamstress, and 
house-girl generally. I could do a deal better with 
Marthy than with this Witch-a- windy !" 


As the old lady spoke, Phil came in and said : 

"Well, I ve given the beauties one full meal, if 
they never get another! And now I am ready to 

go with you to Gryphynshold, Mrs. Mrs. Oh, 

look here now bosh! You don t look a bit more 
of a woman than I am myself, and if I am to be ex 
pected to call you Mrs. What s-her-name, or Any 
thing, our compact of friendship is going to fall 

"You may call me anything you wish?" said 

"Well, what is your other name?" demanded 

"Maria da Gloria de la Vera," repeated the young 
lady, with a merry twinkle of her eyes. 

"Mar ree ar- dar Say it over again, 

please," exclaimed Phil, stretching her blue eyes. 

"Maria da Gloria de la Vera," repeated the young 
lady, repressing an inclination to laugh. 

"Der lar Vay rah! Heaven and earth and 
the other place! I forget one end before I under 
stand the other ! That will never do ! Say, what 
do they call you at home, when they are in a hurry, 
you know, and haven t got time to sit down and 
repeat it all over slowly at their leisure?" 

"They call me Gloria." 

"Glo ree ah! Well, that is three long sylla 
bles a great deal too long for a short and busy 
lifetime ! I would rather call you Glo ." 

"Quite right, my dear Phil. You may call me 
Glo ." 

"It suits you, too, for there s a glow all around 
you! Well, then, Glo , I am ready to escort you 
to Gryphynshold, Ghost Hall, Devil s Den, for by 
all these names is your manor-house known, lady," 


said the strange girl, as she put on her hat and 
stood waiting. 

"I will be with you in a moment," exclaimed 
Gloria, as she started up and left the room. She 
ran up stairs to put on her fur sack and cap, and 
then hurried down to join her escort. 



Over all there hung a cloud of fear, 
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, 

That said, as plain as whispered in the ear, 
"The space is haunted." THOMAS HOOD. 

THE two young girls walked out of the lodge and 
found themselves in a thicket of stunted cedar trees, 
that, because they were higher than her head, pre 
vented Gloria from beholding one of the most mag 
nificent and stupendous landscapes in the country. 

A few steps farther, however, brought them out 
upon the private road that led up to the house. 

It was a road so utterly neglected that the thicket 
of cedars on each side nearly met in the middle, and 
would have prevented any other than a foot-pas 
senger from passing along it. 

This old road led upward all the way to a thickly- 
wooded knoll, on the summit of which, quite buried 
in pine and cedar trees, stood the old gray stone 
building with its heavy oaken doors and heavy 
oaken-shuttered window s. These were all wide 
open to the sun and air now. 


"Were you here when your grandmother I 
mean your auntie, left the house ?" inquired Gloria, 
as they approached the stone portico leading to the 

"No oh, dear, no! I never lived here! I al 
ways wanted to, though !" replied the girl. 

"Come and stay with me, then, for a while, for I 
should like very much to have you." 

"And oh, how I should like to come!" 

"And you would not be afraid of the ghosts?" 

"No ! I don t believe in them ! I wish I could ! 
I would rather see a ghost if such a being exists 
than anything else in the world! That is the 
reason why I want to live in this house to watch 
and wait all day in lonesome rooms, and lay awake 
all night in hope of seeing a ghost. And if there 
is any particularly evil haunted room in the house 
that is the one I wish to sleep in." 

"You shall be accommodated," said Gloria, with 
a smile, as she went up the moss-grown steps to the 
wide-open door a corresponding door at the back 
of the hall stood, also, wide open, giving a vista 
through the spacious hall that was paved with flag 
stones of gray rock, and furnished with rude 
benches of oak and mats of cedar shavings. A 
broad staircase ascended from the middle of the 
floor. And near each side of the foot of this stair 
case, were broad, open chimneys in which great fires 
of brushwood blazed, at once clearing the atmos 
phere and heating the place. Yet neither the bril 
liant sunshine, pouring in through the open doors, 
nor the genial fire flaming up the chimneys, could 
dispel a certain air of gloom that pervaded the 
house, depressing all who were within it. 

Four inner doors two on each side were also 


open, giving views of large, lofty rooms, all with 
flag-stone floors and bare stone walls, and rude, 
plain oak chairs and tables. No carpets, no cur 
tains, no pictures varied the coarse monotony of 
their aspect. 

David Lindsay came out from one of the rooms, 
and seeing Gloria, exclaimed: 

"You here! I had hoped to have had things in 
some better order before letting you see the old 
house. But, how are you? I hope you slept well 
and are refreshed." 

"Thanks. Yes, to all your questions. And now 
I wish to go all over the house/ said the young 

"In its present condition it is fit for nothing but 
a barn or store-house ! The more I see of it the more 
easily I can conceive of the savage nature of the 
men who built and lived in it ; and the more I won 
der at its purchase by such a man as the late Count 
de la Vera ! But the mountains are supposed to be 
rich in mineral wealth for any who have money, 
and enterprise enough to work them." 

While the two spoke together, Mrs. Brent and 
one of her nephews came in by the front door. 

"Well, honey, you see as soon as I righted up the 
house, I felt as if I ought to come here and see if I 
could be useful ; but I felt most afraid to come up 
that lonesome road by myself, and maybe I mightn t 
a got here, after all, if young Jim hadn t come 
along with a quarter of mutton for the larder, and 
I just made him stop and bear me company," she 
said, as she went to one of the fires and began to 
warm her hands. 

"Are the rooms up stairs as bad or worse than 


these?" inquired Gloria, after she had inspected all 
on the lower floor. 

"Oh, they are better. Come up and see them, 
honey. The bed-rooms are all good, and the beds 
are well preserved. You see, honey, the place has 
not been so badly neglected as you might think. 
I have done something to earn my salary. I have 
come up here in the day once every week with some 
of the niggers, and had the place opened and aired 
and fires made in the bed-rooms to dry the damp 
ness," said Mrs. Brent, as she led the way up the 
broad staircase. 

"Well, except that these chambers are drier and 
cleaner, they have not much to boast of beyond the 
rooms below. The whole house is awful gloomy. 
One does not need to see a ghost here. One feels 
that it is haunted," said Gloria, shuddering, as she 
completed her inspection of the upper rooms. 

"Yes, honey, even in the daytime, with the blessed 
sun shining in at all the open windows, and people 
going up and down. Then just think what it must 
have been at night with no one but my lone self up 
here and an old colored man and woman in the 
kitchen down stairs after what I had seen and 
heard, too," muttered the old lady, turning pale. 

"You? Is it possible, Mrs. Brent, that there can 
be any foundation for these absurd stories circu 
lated amongst the superstitious colored people, and 
that you yourself have had any cause to credit 
them?" inquired Gloria, in great surprise. 

"Now see here, honey, I put it to yourself. What 
did you say yourself, just now? One feels that it 
is haunted. " 

"Oh, yes, by the memory of all the stories of mad 


orgies and atrocious deeds that we have heard of 
the furious old Gryphyns who used to live here, 
and the curse that fell upon them. The air is 
full of maledictions! Haunted by these, Mrs. 
Brent. Spirits terrible enough to daunt the bravest, 
yet not visible ghosts," said the young lady. 

"That which I saw and heard, I saw and heard," 
solemnly answered the housekeeper, sinking down 
in an old, green chintz covered arm-chair on one 
side of the fire that had been kindled in one of the 

"What was it, Mrs. Brent?" inquired Gloria, her 
curiosity getting the better of her discretion, as she 
drew a chair to the side of the old lady and seated 

"It was that which drove me out of this large, 
once comfortable and convenient house, to take 
refuge in that rough, deserted porter s lodge, at the 
gate, and has prevented me from ever coming back 
here except in broad daylight, and with plenty of 
people to keep me company." 

"But what was it, then, Mrs. Brent?" 

"Nor was that the only time I saw and heard 
what was not of this world! No, nor of heaven 
either! Nor am I the only one who has seen and 
heard things about this place enough to raise the 
hair and curdle the blood of the boldest man in the 

"Oh, but you have not told me yet what has been 
seen and heard about this haunted spot to strike 
such terror into the hearts of men," said Gloria, 
beginning to be infected by the superstitious fears 
of her companion. 

"An evil spirit from the pit ! and those he brings 
with, him !" muttered the housekeeper in a low voice. 


"What do you mean?" inquired Gloria, in hushed 

"The last master of Gryphynshold old Dyvyd 
Gryphyn ! He whose life was the wickedest of all 
the wicked ones that had gone before him ! He who 
turned his young wife, or sweetheart no one 
knows which she was out of doors in the middle 
of a bitter cold January night to perish of cold, 
as she did on the mountain side ! He who that next 
day was killed in a wicked duel, and whose body 
lies buried in the unconsecrated earth of the family 
burial ground for they were all infidels, and 
wouldn t let a minister of the Gospel come on the 
premises. He it is whose spirit cannot rest in the 
grave, or tarry even with his fellow-devils in the 
pit, but walks continually up and down through 
house and thicket in the darkness of the darkest 
hours in the night!" 

"And you have seen him?" questioned Gloria, 
with incredulous astonishment. 

"I was the first to see and hear him after his 
being killed in the duel. It was no dream, ma am, 
it was no delusion, though you look as if you 
thought so ! It was late at night the night after 
that poor young creature had been torn from her 
bed and turned out to die of cold on the mountain. 
It was a still, cold, freezing night one of those 
silent, bitter winter nights when the frost seems 
to steal into the very marrow of your bones. I was 
sitting by the big fire in the front hall, waiting for 
the master to come home so that I could let him in. 
I had sent all the servants to bed, because they 
were tired with their work, poor things! and, be 
sides, they would have to get up so early in the 
morning that they could not afford to lose their 


rest. Well, I was sitting there before the fire, with 
my knees roasting and my back freezing, and not 
a sound to be heard all over the house, not even a 
cricket or a mouse. I don t know which was the 
most awful, the stillness or the cold. Sud 
denly " 

"Well, suddenly what?" eagerly demanded 
Gloria, seeing that the old lady paused longer than 

"Suddenly there came on the stillness a violent 
rush, as of a great gust of wind, that forced the 
front door open. I jumped up in a panic, but 
dropped down again; for there stood the master, 
pale as a corpse, with a ghastly wound on his 
temple, from which the blood was slowly trickling 
down his cheek. He did not stop a moment, but 
glaring at me, strode down the hall, and up the 
staircase, and disappeared at the top." 

"Good Heavens !" 

"I was a strong woman at that time, but I came 
near swooning, for I thought it was the master 
himself in the flesh, and that he had got his death- 
wound somehow. But soon rallying myself, I got 
up and shut the front door, and bolted and barred 
it. The night was now as still and breathless as it 
had been before Dyvyd Gryphyn rushed in with 
that furious wind. After I had fastened the door 
I went up to the room over the kitchen in the back 
building, and waked up old Tubal, who was then 
the only man-servant about the house.. 

" Tubal/ I said, rise and dress quickly. Your 
master has just come home, dangerously wounded. 
Perhaps I ought then to have gone directly to the 
assistance of the supposed wounded man, but, some 
how, I felt afraid to go alone. Old Tubal, who had 


been too much accustomed to scenes of violence and 
their results, in that house, to be very much shocked 
at what I told him, merely grunted forth : 

" It s nothing more n I expected/ and then has 
tened to dress himself and follow me to his master s 
room. Well, when we got there " 

"Yes! when you got there!" eagerly exclaimed 
Gloria, who would hardly let the old lady pause 
for breath. 

"There was no master to be seen ! No sign of a 
master. We looked through some of the nearer 
rooms, but without finding him. Then we sat down 
in his room and waited, thinking that he might 
have gone somewhere about the house, and would 
be back soon. We waited and waited, until at 
length I became alarmed; for I thought he might 
have fainted from loss of blood in some other part 
of the house. Then old Tubal and myself recom 
menced our search and went into every room, closet 
and passage of the house from the attic to the 
cellar, but without finding any trace of Dyvyd 

"And was he never found?" inquired Gloria, in 
a tone of awe. 

"Yes, honey, his body had been found twenty 
miles away, hours before his spirit appeared to me 
in the hall. At sunrise the next morning, the men 
who had found it on the duelling ground the other 
side of Wolfs Gap, arrived with it at the hall here. 
There was an inquest, of course, and then the truth 
came out." 

"What was the truth?" 

"Why, it seems that on the occasion of the last 
feast that Dyvyd Gryphyn held here when he was 
drunker than usual, he sent for his young wife, and 


made her come down and sing for his wild com 
panions. She had a beautiful voice. They were 
all mad that night. They shocked and terrified the 
poor thing so that near morning she escaped and 
fled from them, and locked herself up in her room 
in a state bordering upon distraction. 7 

"Yes, yes, I have heard that story before." 

"Well, when the man came to his senses the next 
day, he rode away with his guests as far as Wolfs 
Gap, where they all stopped to rest and drink. 
They spoke rudely of Gryphyrfs hidden beauty, and 
one man a Colonel Murdockson boasted of signs 
and signals that the lady had given him the night 
before, to the effect that she was ready to run away 
with him." 


"It was as false as the father of lies ! Yet Dyvyd 
Gryphyn, with the furious jealousy of his race, be 
lieved the slander. He challenged Murdockson on 
the spot, and the meeting was arranged to take 
place the next afternoon in the hollow below Wolf s 

Gloria shuddered. 

"The meeting was to be without seconds, and it 
was only to end in the death of one or both. When 
all was settled, Dyvyd Gryphyn set out to return 
home, arrived only at midnight, strode to his wife s 
chamber, dragged her out of bed and thrust her 
out in the midnight storm to perish on the moun 
tains, as she did, for her body was also found 
though, as the birds of prey had been the first to 
discover it, it was hardly recognizable." 

"I have heard that, too!" shuddered Gloria. 

"I only refer to that in its connection with the 
duel. The next morning he left home to fight it, 


although we, at Gryphynshold, had no suspicion 
of what was afoot. And that night I waited for 
him as usual when his spectre came. After the 
inquest, and the verdict in accordance with the 
facts, the body of Dyvyd Gryphyn was buried out 
yonder, as I told you. But his spectre still haunts 
the place." 

"What became of Murdockson?" 

"He left the neighborhood after the duel, and has 
never been heard of since. You see, ma am, there 
were circumstances of horrible atrocity connected 
with that affair, which I have not had the courage 
to tell you yet. I may some time. Ah ! here comes 
Mr. Lindsay." 



A horrid spectre rises to my sight, 
Before my face, plain and palpable. 


DAVTD LINDSAY entered the room, with a graver 
air than usual overshadowing his frank coun 

Mrs. Brent arose and offered him her own chair 
by the fire. 

With a gesture, he silently thanked her, and 
signed that she should resume her seat, while he 
drew another to the hearth for himself, saying, as 
he sank into it : 

"Well, I have been all over this house, from 
cellar to attic, and I must repeat now from knowl- 


edge what I said at first from suspicion, that this 
place is no home for any lady, and therefore none 
for you." 

"Why?" inquired Gloria, with provoking cool 

" Why? My dear lady, the answer is in every 
thing around you in the desolation, the drear 
iness, the solitude " 

"I do not want company," interrupted Gloria. 

"In its remoteness from all the life of the 
world " 

"And I do want to be very quiet," added Gloria. 

"In its dilapidation and dampness." 

"Good fires can rectify the one immediately, and 
good workmen the other in due time." 

"Finally, in the evil reputation of the place," 
said the young man, solemnly. 

"Now, David Lindsay, if you mean the rumors 
about the house being haunted, that is just what 
attracts me to it !" said Gloria, archly. 

"It is not that idle rumor to which I refer. A 
place that has been little better than a stronghold 
of godless revellers, gamblers, drunkards, duellists, 
murderers, if all be true that is told of them, is no 
proper home for any lady, not to say you. It is 
only fit to be turned into a smelting-furnace for the 
treasures of iron ore said to be hidden in the 
depths of these mountains," gravely concluded the 
young man. 

"Oh, then you don t believe that the house is 
haunted," said Gloria, good-humoredly. 

"It is haunted by the association of atrocious 
crimes and bitter sufferings, if by no other ghosts. 
Lady dear, I wish you would not think of living 
here," he pleaded. 


"The poor old place is in no way to blame for the 
evil lives of the monsters who once lived here and 
have now gone to where they belong to Pande 
monium. I shall stay here, David Lindsay, until 
I have become familiar with every part of the 
house, and acquainted with every part of the moun 
tain. If I grow weary of the place I shall take 
Phil Cummings for a companion and one of her 
old uncles for an escort, and return to Washing 

As Gloria said this, the housekeeper, who sat be 
tween the young pair, looked from one to the other, 
and with the bluntness that belonged to her nature 
and circumstances, exclaimed: 

"Why, surely, if you go, Mr. Lindsay must escort 
you himself." 

"Mr. Lindsay has business that will compel his 
return North as soon as he sees me settled in my 
home," coldly replied Gloria. 

David Lindsay s fine face flushed, and then grew 

"Well, I suppose, such a big estate as yours, 
ma am for I am told that Gryphynshold is but a 
small portion of it, and that the bulk of it is in 
Maryland will require a deal of attention, not to 
say what the gentleman s own affairs may call for ; 
but one would think you would have settled all 
that before you came down here, so as not to be 
separated so soon again. It seems such a pity," 
said the housekeeper, sympathetically. 

Gloria did not reply, and David Lindsay could 

"Well, I didn t sit down here to idle away my 
time. I must go to the linen room and see to get 
ting out the things to make up the beds though, 


dear me, when I come to think of how long they 
have been packed away in the cedar chests, I don t 
believe they will be fit for use, for yellowness and 
closeness," said the housekeeper, getting up to leave 
the room. 

"I will go with you," said Gloria, rising to fol 
low Mrs. Brent, for her sensitive conscience and 
sympathetic spirit made her dread a tete-a-tete with 
David Lindsay almost as much as she had ever 
dreaded one with her uncle; not that she thought, 
for one instant, that the pure-hearted and noble- 
minded young fisherman would ever, under any 
temptation, or for any reason, break his word to 
her, or take the slightest unfair advantage of his 
position towards her. 

She knew that he never would do that. She 
knew also that he would never plead for the love 
that she was unwilling to give him; that he would 
never invoke her pity by any look or tone expres 
sive of the disappointment and humiliation, the 
sorrow and distress he really suffered, and which 
she intuitively knew that he suffered. No, but she 
was afraid of herself. She could trust David Lind 
say utterly, but she could not trust herself. 

She had loved David Lindsay from their child 
hood up; but she had never been "in love" with 
him, or with any one, and she had never wished 
to marry him, or any other; but driven by the 
very spite and stress of fate, she had married him, 
and immediately afterwards realized what a mad, 
fatal, irreparable error she had committed in unit 
ing her fate to that of one so utterly unfitted by 
birth, position and education to be her husband! 

Yet there were moments now when the memory 
of their lifelong, innocent, childish affection for 


each other melted her heart to tears ; when the con 
templation of his magnanimity filled her mind with 
admiration; when all that was best in her own 
nature bridged the gulf between them, and almost 
impelled her hands and lips and voice to go where 
her spirit had gone before. 

She was afraid that in some such moments as 
this she should cast her arms around the neck of 
her young husband, and press her lips to his and 

"You saved me once from death, and once from 
worse than that. You love me more than I deserve. 
You merit all my love. I am your wife. Do not 
leave me." 

She was in danger of saying this every hour 
and she did not wish to say it. 

Now she hurried after the old housekeeper, who 
led the way to a room at the end of the hall, fitted 
up with shelves above and drawers below, all 
around the walls. These were, however, empty, and 
two large cedar chests that stood in the middle of 
the floor seemed to contain all the household linen. 

Mrs. Brent drew a key from her pocket and un 
locked one of the chests, from which a heavy aro 
matic odor of sweet herbs and spices arose. 

"I used to take out these things and air them, 
every summer, but of late years, seeing that they 
never seemed to come into any use, I gave up doing 
that, and just contented myself with putting more 
dried lavender and basil in them every fall," she 
said, as she lifted out folded sheets, fine as cambric, 
yellow as saffron, and filled with the odor of sweet 

"It is no use, honey," continued the housekeeper, 
"these here things are not fit to be used. They will 


have to be washed and bleached first. I shall hare 
to lend you some of mine. They are not so fine as 
these, but they are a deal whiter, so perhaps you 
will excuse them." 

"I shall be very thankful for the loan of them, 
Mrs. Brent," said the young lady. 

"Indeed you are welcome, my dear," replied the 
housekeeper, who was still looking over the con 
tents of the cedar chest. 

"Now, Mrs. Brent, I wish to ask you have you 
never slept in this house since the night that that 
Dyvyd Gryphyn was killed?" 

"And his ghost appeared to us here? No, ma am. 
Never since that night have I slept in this house. 
The officers of the law occupied it the next day, and 
after the inquest the undertaker had possession 
until the funeral. While that was going on T slept 
at my brother s house. Then I had the furniture 
of my part of the house moved down to the gate 
lodge, which was empty at that time, and I have 
lived there ever since; only, as I told you before, 
coming up here, in broad daylight, with a lot of the 
colored people to keep me in courage, while I had 
the house opened and aired. This I have done faith 
fully every week all the year round, ever since the 
last master s dreadful death." 

"And you have never seen anything to recall the 
horrors of that night?" 

"Not much, ma am, because I have always visited 
it in broad daylight, as I have told you." 

"Well, now that the place is thrown open to the 
sun and air, and Mr. Lindsay and myself are here 
to take possession, and your niece Philippa and a 
number of the colored servants, whom we shall 
bring in, you will not be afraid to join us?" 


"You mean to come back and live here?" inquired 
the housekeeper, somewhat startled. 

"Yes, to come and live here. I shall want a 
housekeeper in the house to look after the servants. 
I shall also need a matron, as a protector for my 
self during the absence of Mr. Lindsay ; or, to speak 
more correctly, I should say, after the departure 
of Mr. Lindsay. I would give you for your sleep 
ing-room, one of the best bed-chambers in the house, 
the next to my own, for company, and your niece 
could sleep with you for closer company. Come, 
what do you say?" 

"Oh, ma am, I know not what to say. Of course, 
I know that I must do one thing or the other. As 
long as you need a housekeeper in the house, I must 
either come and live here or else I must give up 
my situation and let some other woman take it who 
would come and live in the house. I have held the 
situation of housekeeper at Gryphynshold for 
twenty-five years, and I don t like to give up a post 
that I expected to live and die in ; and, on the other 
hand, I am afeared to sleep in this house." 

"Well, Mrs. Brent," said Gloria, with more firm 
ness than she had ever given herself credit for pos 
sessing, "I do not wish to hurry you. Take your 
time to decide what you will do; but let me know 
your answer before Mr. Lindsay goes away; for it 
will be necessary for me to find some matronly pro 
tection before his departure." 

"And dear me, that will be so soon," said the 

"Yes; but listen. Your years of faithful service 
will not be forgotten. If you decide to leave me you 
shall have six months wages in advance; but if you 


decide to stay I will do anything in the world that 
I can do to make you happy." 

"My dear young lady, would you let me try it a 
little while before deciding?" inquired the old 

"How do you mean?" asked Gloria. 

"Let me try if I can stay here. If nothing hap 
pens, such as happened on that horrible night, why, 
I might stay and spend the rest of my life here; but 
if anything of that sort should come again, if it 
shouldn t frighten me to death on the spot, it would, 
at least, scare me away from the house forever." 

"Such a night of horror is not likely to return in 
our lifetime. I accept your terms, Mrs. Brerit, and 
I am very glad to do so. I should dislike to lose 

"Thanky, honey; so should I," replied the old 
woman, rather obscurely. Then: "When would 
you like me to come in, ma am?" she inquired. 

"As soon as you possibly can." 

"Well, I think I can come to-day. As you were 
so kind as to say that you would give me a room 
next to your own, I shall not need to move the fur 
niture from the lodge-house, as these rooms are 
already furnished. Now, honey, I ll go down and 
see to preparing the dinner." 

"Thanks, and please send your niece up to me, 
Mrs. Brent," said Gloria, who still shrank from a 
tete-a-tete with David Lindsay. 

Philippa came dancing up stairs and into the 

"There s an army in the old house, and I am 
afraid they ll rout the ghosts!" she exclaimed. 
"Just think of it ! They have all the field negroes 
who have not much to do outside at this season 


of the year, you know in the house, busy scrub 
bing, scouring, mopping, sweeping, dusting and 
what not" 

"Then they will get through all the sooner, for 
which I shall be very glad," said Gloria. 

"Oh, they will get through cleaning to-night! 
And then we shall have peace for some time; for 
they can t begin any repairs until the spring, you 

"I don t want any repairs. The house is wind 
and water proof, and that is all that is necessary 
besides cleanliness. Fresh paint and new wall 
paper would utterly spoil it." 

"I think this inroad of mops and brooms and 
scrubbing-brushes has spoiled it already. Oh, the 
poor ghosts! I am so sorry for the ghosts. Yes, 
and for myself, too. I was so in hopes of seeing 
a ghost," sighed Philippa, with a look of downright 

"Why should you wish to see a ghost, if such a 
being ever exists?" inquired Gloria. 

"Why, oh, why? Because the apparition of a real 
ghost would be proof positive of the life after 
death," said Philippa, quite seriously. 

"But your Christian faith should assure you of 
that, if you have faith." 

"Oh, yes, I have faith, of course I have faith. 
Why, I have been confirmed, child, so of course 
I have faith ; but what I want is certainty. I want 
to see a ghost who can tell me all about it. There 
is nothing in this hum-drum world I should like so 
well as a good, comfortable, sitting down, leisurely 
gossip with a real ghost ! Or a midnight visit from 
a departed spirit, who would take a chair at my 


bedside and answer all my questions," said 
Philippa; and she looked as if she meant it. 

"You would be frightened out of your wits !" ex 
claimed Gloria. 

"Not I! What would I have to fear? Who ever 
heard of a ghost hurting anybody? Of all the ab 
surd cowardice, I think the fear of ghosts must be 
the weakest! Why, if the very wickedest old 
Gryphyn that ever killed and ate his grandmother, 
was to appear to me and try to bulldoze me, all I 
would say would be Ah ha, old rooster! Your 
comb is cut now! Flesh and blood have no longer 
anything to fear from you! Clear out, or I will 
throw my prayer-book at your head for of course 
you know I wouldn t care about hearing what he 
could tell me of the other world! But, oh dear! 
there is not the slightest probability of interviewing 
a spirit, good or evil, now. These commonplace, un 
imaginative sweepers, and dusters, and moppers, 

and scrubbers have exorcised them all unless 

Come with me, Madame Gloria. I will show you 
a place that they haven t invaded yet, and if that 
place is not consecrated or cursed to the use of 
ghosts, I ll give them up," said Philippa, suddenly 

Gloria, carried away by the impetuosity of her 
companion, arose and followed her. 

Philippa led the way down stairs and down the 
main hall to a side door that opened into a long, 
dark, narrow passage leading through an ell of the 

At the end of this she opened another door lead 
ing down a deep and narrow flight of stairs to a 
dark cellar. 

At the foot of these stairs she stopped and said : 


"Wait. I brought a piece of candle with me and 
a match. We must have a light before we go a step 

And while Gloria stood there, Philippa snapped 
a match and lighted the end of the tallow candle, 
which, however, only showed a small ray in the 
midst of the deep darkness. 

They stepped down now upon the flagstone floor 
of the cellar, which seemed quite dry. Groping 
along with their feeble light, they explored the 
walls, which were arched and divided into bins and 
niches some of them with rusty iron doors places 
which made the two girls shudder. 

In one corner of this place they found a door 
which, when they opened it, revealed, in the dim 
light of the candle, a ladder leading down to a sub 
terranean room below the cellar. 

"Oh, look here!" whispered Philippa. "Look 
here! In the deepest deep a deeper deep!" 

"Oh, come away! Come away! Come away 
directly and shut the door! There is a dreadful 
air arises from that place!" exclaimed Gloria, 
shrinking back. 

" Come away, indeed ! Not much ! I am going 
down these stairs to see what is at the bottom. You 
can stay here until I come back, but I cannot leave 
you the candle, you know," obstinately replied the 
stubborn girl. 

In vain Gloria sought to dissuade her from her 
purpose. She was as stubborn and intractable as 
a young mule, and she began to go down the ladder. 

Gloria, seeing her so determined, had no other 
alternative but to follow her willful guide. 

A foul air, impregnated with must and mould 
and dampness, met them. They could scarcely 


breathe, the candle could scarcely burn in the im 
pure, oppressive atmosphere. 

"Oh, if you would only not persist," moaned 
Gloria, as holding on to the sides of the ladder, she 
groped her way down after her conductor. 

"But I must persist," replied Philippa, who had 
now reached the bottom. 

With some danger and difficulty Gloria de 
scended the ladder and stood by her side. 

The feeble rays of the candle showed but a small 
circle of light just around them. All beyond was 
utter darkness. 

Suddenly Gloria grasped the arm of her com 
panion and shuddered. 

"What s the matter?" demanded Philippa. 

"Listen !" 


"Don t you hear something?" 


"Oh, listen! There it is again!" 

"What, I say?" 

"That moaning, gurgling sound, as of some one 
strangling and groaning!" 

"Oh, that is the sound of some subterranean, 
pent-up stream. I have found such in the caves 
under these mountains, and I have heard that the 
foundations of this house communicate with a 
chain of caverns opening from one into another 
under the whole breadth of the mountain base, and 
more than one stream of water must traverse 
them," said Philippa. 

"Then this is a very dangerous place! This is 
far down under the deepest foundations of the 
house, and in this utter darkness we might step into 
a stream of water, and be swept away and drowned. 


And oh! of all the gates that lead into the other 
life, a black water gate must be the most appalling ! 
Do come back, Philippa!" 

"I cannot! Something draws me on! But you 
keep behind me. I will go on before. If I should 
disappear, either down into a cave or into a sub 
terranean stream, do you turn and go back to the 
upper world by the way you came." 

"This is foolish, foolhardy, wicked, Philippa," 

"I know it is, but I cannot help it. Something 
draws me on, I tell you!" exclaimed the willful 
creature. And at the same moment she stumbled, 
recovered herself, and held the candle close to the 
ground to see what the obstacle had been. 

"Oh, gracious Heaven, what is this?" cried 
Philippa, in a tone of sickening horror, as she re 
coiled from the object. 

"What is it?" whispered Gloria, in a frightened 

"Look! Look!" gasped Philippa. 

Gloria caught the candle from the girl s shaking 
hand, held it down, peered into the obscurity, and 
instantly sprang back with a piercing shriek. 

They were on the very brink of a black torrent 
that rushed along through the depths of a deep and 
yawning gulch. Another moment another step, 
and they must have plunged down the precipice 
into the dark water of that buried river, and been 
whirled on to destruction in the darkest depths of 
the abyss. 

But it was not even that impending doom that 
had appalled them! 

It was the dire object that rose from the earth on 
the bank of the chasm! 

For a moment they stood clinging together, half 


petrified, and then, without a word, turned and fled 
to the foot of the ladder, and climbed it with, 
tumultuous haste. On reaching the cellar over this 
cavern, they hurried across it to the door leading 
up stairs to the back building communicating with 
the house. 

Pale, breathless, trembling, they at length found 
themselves in the great hall, with its doors and 
windows open to the wholesome sun and air, and 
cheerful wood fires burning in the broad fire 



This chamber is the ghostly ! 


"On, Madame Gloria ! I ve done bragging ! I ll 
never brag any more! I did pray to my guardian 
angel if he d save my life and reason until I could 
get out of that place I would never brag any more!" 
exclaimed Philippa, with a hysterical laugh, as she 
dropped on one of the rude oak benches in the hall. 

"Oh, Philippa, don t speak so lightly of that 

awful " cried Gloria, suddenly stopping and 

covering her pallid face with both hands, as she, too, 
sank upon a seat. 

"Lightly? Gracious Heaven! I don t speak 
lightly! All my boasted courage has come out in 
a cold sweat that trickles like ice water all down 
my spine! Madame Gloria, I would rather have 
seen the blackest evil spirit from the abyss, all 
alone at midnight, than that horrid Ugh-h-h !" 


"Philippa! for Heaven s sake, don t speak of it 
now, or evermore! You are a brave girl " 

"I will never say so after this. I m conquered 
quite !" shuddered the willful creature. 

"You have seen what would have shaken the 
nerves of the boldest man ; it is no wonder that you 
are overcome as well as myself. But, Philippa, I 
beg you, for my sake, never mention to a human 
being what we have seen below. If it were once 
known what our eyes have beheld what rises from 
the brink of that subterranean black river the 
horror below the foundation of these walls no liv 
ing being could be induced to remain in the house 
with us." 

"Shall you remain?" whispered Philippa. 


"Oh, why?" 

"Because I said I would, and I should be 
ashamed to retract. I will not be ejected, even by 

that appalling Oh ! let us not speak of it, even 

to each other. And never, never to any one else. 
Your aunt would never come near the house, even 
by day, if she knew of that dire presence below, 
and I wish her to remain with us, Philippa. I say 
us, because I feel sure that you will stay with me." 

"Yes, I will stay and I will keep the secret," 
whispered the girl. 

"The cellar and the horrible cave below it, with 
the black river, have long been disused, if ever, 
indeed, they were used at all. I will have the two 
doors at the head of the two flights of stairs lead 
ing dow^ to the abyss nailed up to-day. The foul 
air from below will be excuse enough for that." 

"There be some that cannot be kept out by locks, 
or bolts, or bars, or nailed-up doors no, nor even 


by tons of stone and earth! And of such was what 
we saw !" 

"Oh, hush, hush, hush ! Why do you dwell upon 
that? Oh, that we both could drink of the waters 
of Lethe and forget it!" whispered Gloria, as she 
covered her face with her hands and shuddered. 

At this moment a lucky interruption ended their 
dismal conversation. 

Mrs. Brent came walking briskly from one of the 
side rooms, saying : 

"Come, now, ma am, dinner is ready not such a 
dinner as I hope to set before you every day for the 
future, but just such a one as I could get up under 
the circumstances to-day." 

"I have no doubt it will be delicious and just 
what we like. As for me, I prefer what are called 
picked up dinners simple little dishes. The 
sight of big joints takes away my appetite," said 
Gloria, as she arose and followed her conductress 
into the room from which the latter had emerged. 

It was the front room on the left-hand side of the 
hall a large room, with an oak floor uncarpeted, 
stone walls unplastered, two tall front windows, 
uncurtained, and a broad fireplace, where blazed 
a rousing, fragrant fire of pine and cedar wood. 

An oaken table, covered with a coarse, clean 
white cloth, stood in the middle of the room, set 
for dinner; two oaken chairs were placed for the 
master and mistress of the house. 

David Lindsay stood before the fire, but on see 
ing Gloria, came forward to meet her. 

"You look pale and worried," he said, as he took 
her hand. 

Teg, I have been going over the house and I feel 
tired," she replied. 


"And hungry, I hope, to do justice to the dainty 
repast Mrs. Brent has prepared for us," he added, 
as he led her to the table and drew out her chair. 

"Now come, Mrs. Brent and Philippa, you must 
both sit down and dine with us to-day. Don t let 
it be said that we had to take our dinner alone on 
the first day of our arrival at home," said Gloria. 

David Lindsay immediately arose and placed two 
more chairs at the table. 

"Oh, we couldn t think of it, ma am, indeed!" 
answered the housekeeper, drawing away. 

Gloria urged and David pleaded, but Mrs. Brent 
persisted in her refusal, until at length Gloria got 
up and left the table, saying: 

"Very well, then, I will not eat a single morsel 
of dinner until you and Phil join us." 

"Oh, I ll submit at once, laughed Philippa, tak 
ing one of the vacant chairs. 

"Do, Mrs. Brent, humor the fancy of our willful 
little lady," said David Lindsay, as he arose and 
placed his hand on the back of another chair, in 
viting the old woman to take it. 

"You are a couple of spoiled children, that s what 
you are, and you ought both to be at school instead 
of being married, and that is the fact," laughed the 
housekeeper, as, not really unwillingly, she took 
her place at the table with the genial young pair. 

"Now, that is settled. The precedent don t they 
call it a precedent in the courts of law, David? 
the precedent is established. Henceforth you are 
to take your meals with us, dear Mrs. Brent, just 
as if you were our mother, and Philippa were our 
sister; for we have neither mother nor sister on 
this earth I mean David nor I and, besides, 
really, we four are too few to be separated in this 


lonesome place," said the little lady of the house, 
as she settled herself to enjoy her dinner as well as 
she could under the circumstances and the memory 
of the afternoon s horror. 

It was a very limited dinner, consisting of just 
what was at hand and could be cooked in a hurry ; 
but it w r as a very dainty dinner, notwithstanding; 
there were delicious broiled venison steaks, light 
biscuits, fresh butter, a baked custard, preserved 
mountain cherries, tea, coffee and cream. 

David Lindsay and Mrs. Brent fully appreciated 
the good things, and proved that they did so. 

But neither Gloria nor Philippa could so far 
overcome the effect of that ghastly terror in the 
cave as to relish anything that was set before them. 

As this late meal was to serve as both dinner and 
supper for the small household on this day of 
bustle, they sat rather long at the table, not leav 
ing it, in fact, until the short tallow candles that 
had been placed upon it began to burn low in their 

Then David Lindsay and Gloria withdrew from 
the dining-room and went into the parlor on the 
opposite side of the hall. 

There, also, a fine fire was burning, and a table 
was drawn up before the hearth, flanked by two 
straight-backed, chip-bottomed chairs. 

"What would Miss Agrippina de Crespigney say, 
if she could have seen her niece, the Countess 
Gloria, sitting down at the table with her house 
keeper?" inquired David Lindsay, with a smile, as 
they seated themselves near the fire. 

"Oh, for Heaven s sake, drop that! I never was 
intended for a fine lady, David Lindsay never! 
much less for a countess! I love people, David 


Lindsay. I never want to keep them at a distance. 
I want to draw them closer to me," she murmured, 
in a tender tone, with her eyes fixed dreamily upon 
the fire. 

"Then love me, draw me nearer to you, and my 
life s devotion shall be yours/ was in his heart and 
almost on his lips to say; but he put away the selfish 
thought and continued silent. 

It was growing late, and they were both very 

Gloria was the first to rise. 

"Good-night, David Lindsay," she said as she 
took one of the tallow candles from the chimney 
shelf to light her steps. 

"Good-night," he answered, in gentle tones. 

"Your room," she resumed, and then she hesi 
tated, holding the candle in her hand and looking 
down on the floor "your room is the one over the 
dining-room. You will find everything prepared 
there for your comfort." 

"I thank you very much," answered the young 
man, in a low and broken voice. 

"Good-night," she said, still hesitating. 

"Good-night, lady dear." 

"God bless you, David Lindsay," she added, 

"And you, too ! God bless you, Gloria," he an 

She went out of the room ; but as she turned to 
shut the door, she caught sight of his face. It wore 
a look of weary sorrow, such as he never would 
have willingly permitted her to see; and suddenly 
she sat down her candle on the hall bench, ran 
back into the room, threw her arms around his 


neck and kissed his forehead, sobbing forth the 
words : 

"Oh, David Lindsay, I am so sorry so sorry! 
But I can t help it. Indeed, I can t, dear David 
Lindsay !" 

With a look of ineffable tenderness, he put his 
arm around her waist and drew her close to his 
heart, and would have returned her kiss, but she 
suddenly broke from him, and ran out of the room. 
She caught up her candle from the hall table, flew 
up stairs to her own chamber, shut the door, and 
flung herself down on the bed in a passion of tears. 

"Oh-h-h ! what a hard, cold, proud wretch I am ! 
What a cruel, wicked, unnatural monster! But I 
cannot help it! I cannot! I don t want to be 
married I do not. I love David Lindsay! I do 
love him, dearly, dearly, dearly ; I always did love 
him better than anybody else in the whole world. 
Ah ! who is so good and grand as he is, within him 
self? No one that I ever saw in this world. No 
one that I ever read of. But I don t want to be 
his wife! I don t want to be anybody s wife! Oh, 
I wish I had stayed at the Sacred Heart, with the 
quiet sisters there!" 

She was interrupted in her passionate vehemence 
of self-reproaches and lamentations by the sound 
of light footsteps and cheerful voices approaching 
her door, and finally by a rapping at the same. 

She arose, composed herself as well as she could 
and went and opened to Mrs. Brent and Philippa, 
who had come to bid her good-night, and to ask if 
she would need anything more before they should 
retire to bed. 

Gloria thanked them and said that she would re 
quire nothing. 


"And if you should, you have only to knock on 
the door between us to let me know, for you see 
our room is just back of yours here," added the 

"I will remember," replied Gloria, in a low tone. 

"I suppose Mr. Lindsay will not want anything. 
I reckon he ll be up before long. I left him sitting 
before the big parlor fire," remarked Mrs. Brent. 

"I dare say," answered Gloria, so wearily that 
the housekeeper bade her good-night and retired, 
followed by Philippa, who, since their fearful ad 
venture in the cavern under the cellar, had been 
strangely silent and reserved. 

Gloria locked her door leading into the hall and 
bolted the one leading into the rear room occupied 
by the housekeeper. 

Then she replenished her fire from a box of wood 
that sat on one side of the hearth, and also threw 
on a number of resinous pine knots and cones, that 
their bright blaze might light up the large, gloomy 

Having done this, she proceeded to examine her 
room more carefully than she had yet done. 

It was one of the two front and principal bed 
chambers in the house, being immediately above, 
and of the same dimensions with the "big parlor" 
below. And, with the exception of the bed, which, 
in all its appointments, was very good, it was as 
rudely furnished. The walls and floor were per 
fectly bare. The window s were without curtains 
or shades, but were provided with unpainted oak 
shutters which closed from the outside. These two 
front windows faced the east; between them stood 
an old oaken chest of drawers surmounted by a 
hanging mirror, so mildewed as to be scarcely use- 


ful. Each side of this old piece of furniture stood 
a high-backed, chip-bottomed chair, one under each 

On the south side of the room was the broad open 
fire-place, with deep closets in the recesses on the 
right and left. 

On the west side was the high four-post bedstead, 
with its head against the partition wall, and its foot 
opposite the windows. On the side nearest the fire 
place was the door leading into the rear room. 

On the north side was the door opening into the 
hall. In the corner between this hall door and the 
head of the bed was an old-fashioned piece of fur 
niture of black walnut that reached from the lofty 
ceiling to the floor, and might have been a book 
case, a clothes-press, a cabinet, or the three in one; 
for the long, heavy black doors hanging open dis 
closed closets within closets, and shelves and 
drawers and pigeon-holes innumerable, and of all 
shapes and sizes. Yellow papers protruded from 
many compartments. 

Gloria made up her mind to investigate this an 
cient secretary at her leisure the next day. 

Then, having offered up her evening prayers and 
thanksgivings, she went to bed, and, notwithstand 
ing care and anxiety, she soon fell asleep. 

David Lindsay sat long over the fire in the big 
parlor; not until all the household had been for 
hours in deep repose did he rouse himself to go to 
the chamber allotted to him over the dining-room. 

This was a large, square room, in all respects a 
counterpart of the one on the opposite side of the 
hall occupied by Gloria. It was furnished in the 
same rude style. 

The only difference was that this room was with- 


out the huge old escritoire, or secretary, that stood 
in the other. 

David Lindsay did not replenish his fire. It was 
nearly out, so he covered it up, blew out his snuff 
of candle, and retired to bed; but not to sleep at 
least, for a long time. 

He was as nearly heart-broken, poor fellow, as 
any youthful lover ever was. His pride was strug 
gling with the sense of disappointment, humilia 
tion and sorrow that seemed to be rushing him 
into despair. He felt sure that if his capricious 
but tender bride knew the tithe of his sufferings, 
she would give herself to him; but not to her pity 
could he bear to owe his love. He must accept his 
fate, rather than lose his self-respect ; must see her 
in safety, and then depart. 

But how to secure her safety? That was the 
question that kept him awake so long. 

At length, weary mind and body succumbed to 

Then a very strange thing happened. 

How long he had slept, he knew not; at what 
time he awoke, or whether he really did awake, or 
only dreamt, he never could tell ; but it seemed to 
him that he was gently aroused from a deep and 
dreamless sleep, by the touch of a soft hand on his 
face, and the tone of a soft voice in his ear. 

"Who is there?" he murmured, only half con 

The sweet, low-toned, pathetic voice answered: 
"It is I, your mother. David Gryphyn, arise, go 
hence, get to your home. My mother has somewhat 
to say to you." 

The soft voice, breathing flute-like over him, held 


his soul in a spell of silence and repose until it 

Then, wondering, he started up as from a dream. 

The room was perfectly dark, but he groped his 
way to the mantelpiece, where he had left the 
tallow-candle and the box of matches, and he struck 
a light. And still in great agitation, he went to 
both the chamber doors the one leading into the 
hall, and the one leading into the rear room and 
examined them. They were both securely locked 
and bolted as he had left them. 

Then he went to the front windows, hoisted them, 
and threw open the heavy oaken shutters. A flood 
of light burst into the room. He found, to his sur 
prise, that it was broad day and the sun was rising. 



Spirits have oftentimes descended 
Upon our slumbers, and the blessed ones 
Have in the calm and quiet of the soul 
Conversed with us. SHIRLEY. 

SUNSHINE flowed into the rconi, filling it with 
dazzling light. Yet David Lindsay, after having 
opened the shutters and let down the window- 
sashes, stood in the middle of the floor, gazing down 
like one still half entranced, with the impression 
of that soft touch still on his brow, and the melody 
of that tender voice still in his ear. 


"Was it a dreain?" he murmured to himself. 
"Could it have been a dream? No dream I ever had 
was ever so like reality. Or could some dreaming 
sleep-walker have entered my chamber and saluted 
me? Impossible! Yet, let me examine the doors 
once more." 

He roused himself, and went again to investigate 
the fastenings on the only two outlets from the 
room the first leading into the hall, and the 
second into the rear room. 

He found them both securely locked and bolted, 
and, moreover, the locks and bolts were both so 
strong and so rusty that they required some con 
siderable exertion to move them. 

No one could have entered through the doors, 
that was certain. 

He looked into both closets that flanked the fire 
place, but the bare plastered walls and oaken 
shelves afforded no opportunity of concealment or 
of passage. 

Every other nook and corner of the room was 
clearly visible in the bright sunshine. Even the 
space under the high bedstead was a vista. The 
plastered walls of the room, like those of the 
closets, gave no chance of a sliding panel for en 
trance or exit through a secret passage. Nor could 
any one have come in or gone out through the 
windows, which, besides having been securely fas 
tened with oaken shutters secured by strong and 
rusty iron hooks and bolts, were full fifty feet 
above the ground, with a sheer descent of stone wall 
below them, and no tree, or vine, or porch, or bal 
cony to assist the climber. 

No! it was utterly and entirely impossible that 
any human being, besides himself, could have been 


concealed in the room when he went to bed, or 
could have entered it afterward. 

And yet he had been awakened from a deep and 
dreamless sleep by a light touch on his forehead, 
and had perceived a benignant presence that he 
could not see, a presence which, to his half-con 
scious question of "Who is there?" had answered 
in murmuring music, soft as the notes of an . Eolian 

"It is I, your mother. David Gryphyn, arise, and 
go hence ; get to your home my mother has some 
what to say to you." 

And the soft voice sunk into silence, and when he 
started up and opened the window shutters, letting 
in the rays of the rising sun, there was nothing to 
be seen but the great bare walls and floor of the 
room, with its scant and rude furniture. 

David Lindsay sat down on one of the rough 
chairs, and took his head between his hands to 
think it over. He could make nothing of it. The 
voice had said: "It is I, your mother." But the 
voice was not at all like that of his mother, as he 
remembered hers. Again, the mysterious visitant 
had said, "David Gryphyn." But his name was not 
David Gryphyn; it was David Lindsay. Finally, 
it had concluded with these unaccountable words 
"Go hence and get to your home, for my mother 
has somewhat to communicate to you." But his 
mother had no mother living on this earth, he knew. 
His mother had been an orphan when his father, 
James Lindsay, had married her. The old woman 
at his home, Dame Lindsay, was his grandmother 
on his father s side. 

The dream, or vision, strange and real and super 
human as it seemed, was an absurdly mixed-up 


affair, caused, no doubt, by confused memories and 
thoughts jumbled up together in his disturbed 
brain. So David Lindsay said to himself, yet he 
could not shake off the supernatural, perhaps even 
the superstitious, effects left upon his mind. 

He had been moving about and then sitting still 
in the cold room, just as he had jumped out of bed. 
He had been too much absorbed by his strange sub 
ject of thought to feel the chill that was creeping 
upon him. 

Now, however, as he aroused himself from useless 
reverie, he shivered and shook as with an ague, and 
hastened to the hearth and uncovered the smoulder 
ing coals and brands, and threw upon them several 
handfuls of resinous pine cones and knots taken 
from a box in the corner, and upon them several 
cedar sticks and logs from a pile in the opposite 
corner, that soon blazed up, filling the room with 
an agreeable warmth and pleasant fragrance. 

Then he dressed himself and went out. 

There was no one in the hall outside the bed 
chambers, so he could not tell whether he was not 
the only one up in this strange house. 

He passed down stairs and found the fires burn 
ing brightly in the broad front and back fire-places 
in the hall, but still no one was to be seen. 

He entered the a big parlor," arid found another 
pine fire there, but the room was empty. 

In the spirit of restlessness he wandered into 
every room on that floor, finding every one well 
warmed by great open fires of costly logs costly 
in every other locality, but cheap enough, because 
plenty enough on Cedar Mountain. 

These numerous fires were needed now, and 


would be needed for some time yet, to correct the 
dampness and bad air of the long-deserted house. 

Last of all he wandered into the dining-room, 
where they had taken dinner and tea in one on the 
preceding day. 

Here the table was drawn up before the bright, 
blazing fire, and neatly set for breakfast. 

"What a home this is for Gloria to come to! 
What a strange fascination it is that brings her 
here and keeps her here. Why, our poor little cot 
tage on Sandy Isle is a civilized and refined home 
compared to this ! And we have the small comforts 
of life and a few books and a few little ornaments. 
And Promontory Hall is a queen s palace to this. 
For here, in this unfinished and almost unfurnished 
place, there is not a papered wall, not a single 
carpet, nor a curtain, nor a picture, nor a cast, nor 
a book to be seen. It supplies only an inventory 
of negations. How can she stay here? But there 
is one good in the place. She is as safe here, per 
haps safer here with Mrs. Brent, than she would be 
anywhere else ; for I am not sure, if she were within 
the reach of her half-crazy guardian, that her mar 
riage would be any protection against his persecu 
tion. Finding out this marriage to have been only 
a form, he might choose to ignore it and urge upon 
her the expediency of having it legally annulled. 
I cannot trust an infatuated man without religious 
principles to restrain him. Yes, she is better here 
for the present, and if I could get Miss de Crespi- 
gney to join her here, it would be the best thing that 
could happen for her; for Miss Agrippina is too 
strictly principled not to hold to the sanctity of 
marriage vows, even in such a case as ours, and 
she would be now the best protection for my un- 


loving bride. I will try to get Miss Agrippina to 
eoine to her, even if I ha r e to brave that lady s 

So mused David Lindsay, sitting before the din 
ing-room fire, until he was interrupted by the en 
trance of Mrs. Brent, bringing a coffee-pot in her 
hands and followed by a negro man with a large 
dish of broiled partridges. 

"Dear me! Good morning, sir! You nere! I 
was just a going to send Hector to let you know 
breakfast was ready ; for as I didn t see you in the 
big parlor with Mrs. Lindsay, I thought you were 
still in your room," said the good woman. 

"I have been down some time; but there was no 
one in the parlor when I looked in." 

"Mrs. Lindsay has only been there for a few 
minutes, sir. Here she comes now ! Now, Hector, 
bring in the muffins." 

Gloria entered at the same moment. 

David Lindsay arose and placed a chair for her. 
They only said good-morning to each other by a 

The last dishes were set on the board, Philippa 
joined them, and they all sat down to the table, 
the girl just nodding by way of a morning saluta 

"I hope you slept well, ma am?" said Mrs. Brent, 

"Profoundly. I never even dreamed or stirred 
until morning ! If there be a ghost about the house 
it didn t disturb me," answered Gloria. 

"Well, I suppose I should have slept quietly 
enough too, if it hadn t been for Philly! She kept 
jumping and starting, and talking, and crying out 
the live-long night," said the housekeeper. 


Gloria looked at her young companion and saw 
that she was pale and anxious, yet Gloria did not 
dare to ask the reason, lest "Philly" should blurt 
out something about the ghastly apparition that 
had appalled them in the cavern. 

But Philippa spoke for herself. 

"It was too much supper and the nightmare," she 
explained, with serio-comic gravity. 

As soon as breakfast was over, Gloria left the 
table and retreated into the big parlor, followed by 
David Lindsay. 

Gloria had unpacked some materials for the silk 
embroidery which she liked so well to do. Now she 
had brought some down to the parlor with her, and 
she sat down and began to arrange it for work. 

"If I were not still so extremely tired with my 
week s rumbling over rough roads, I should like to 
go out to-day and explore some of this magnificent 
mountain scenery," she said, as she threaded her 

"What? In paths covered deep in snow and ice?" 
queried David Lindsay, as he stood on the hearth 
with his elbow leaning on the mantelpiece. 

"Yes ! It is not the condition of the ground that 
would prevent me! It is my own state. I feel as 
weary and worn out as if I were seventy years old 
instead of seventeen. In fact, I feel my fatigue 
even more to-day than I did yesterday." 

"I am sorry to hear that. I had hoped that you 
had quite recovered. You said that you had slept 
so soundly." 

"That was from my deep weariness. Yes, I slept 
like death all night. But I will venture to say that 
you did not, David Lindsay. You look as if you 


had been interviewed by an unpleasant ghost !" said 
Gloria lightly. 

"I have !" replied David Lindsay, with an as 
sumed solemnity that imposed upon his companion. 


"I have." 

"Do you know what I asked you?" 


"And you say you have?" 


"Been interviewed by a ghost?" 


"Oh, David Lindsay, what do you mean?" de 
manded Gloria, in wonder and perplexity. 

"My dear little lady, I mean very much of what 
I have said," he gravely replied. 

"Do explain yourself. Have you seen or heard 
anything extraordinary in this strange house?" 

"My dear lady, yes, I have. Last night, or rather 
early this morning, I had an extraordinary dream, 
or vision no, not vision, for I saw nothing but 
visitation, for I both felt and heard the presence," 
said the young man, as seriously as before. 

"Now, are you in earnest? But of course you are. 
You would not jest on such a subject." 

"I am not jesting," said the young man, gently. 
"Yet it woulld seem absurd to be in earnest about 
the matter. In truth, I am perplexed. For, dear 
Gloria, I am not ready to deny or utterly disbelieve 
in the possibility of communication between the 
natural and the spiritual world in the face of so 
much evidence from tradition and history and even 
from the Word of the Lord. What I experienced 
last night would have almost persuaded me to be 
lieve in the possible return of departed spirits, but 


for some strange inconsistency in the communica 
tion made me." 

"Tell me all about it, David Lindsay," exclaimed 
Gloria, dropping her work upon her lap and gazing 
up at him. 

"Last night, after I went to my room, I locked 
and bolted both the doors and hooked and bolted 
both pairs of window-shutters. Then I went to bed, 
and towards morning fell into a deep and dream 
less sleep, such as would naturally follow the last 
week of excessive fatigue." 

"Like mine, yes." 

"From that death-like sleep I was gently but 
completely awakened by feeling a light hand laid 
on my forehead. Who is there? I called. A low, 
tender, flute-like voice replied: It is I, your 
mother. David Gryphyn, arise and go hence get- 
to your home. My mother has somewhat to say to 
you. " 

"Gracious Heaven, David Lindsay, do you tell me 
that!" exclaimed Gloria, turning pale. 

"Yes, but whether this was a dream or a visita 
tion, I cannot tell you. I must say it was more like 
a visitation." 

"What did you do or say?" 

"Nothing at first. I felt spell-bound dum- 

"Did you see this mysterious visitant?" 

"No, I only felt her hand on my forehead and 
heard her voice in my ears." 

"Did she speak again?" 


"Then what did you do?" 

"I sprang out of bed and threw open the window- 
shutters. The sun was rising and filled the room 


full of light. I searched the place thoroughly, and 
found no one ; examined the doors, and found them 
securely locked and holted as I had left them on 
the previous night." 

"And so you were convinced that no one was con 
cealed in your chamber, or could have entered it 
during the night." 

"Yes, I am convinced of that." 

"David Lindsay, what do you think of this your 

"I do not know what to think. It was less like 
a dream than like a real visitation." 

"Was the mysterious visitant like your mother?" 

"I repeat that I did not see the visitant at all. 
I felt her hand upon my forehead. I heard her 
voice in my ear. That was all. But I must say 
that though she called herself my mother, her hand 
felt much smaller, slenderer, softer and lighter 
than my poor mother s hand, which was large and 
hard and roughened by coarse work ; her voice also 
was fine and flute-like, whereas my dear mother s 
voice was deep and strong. No ! though I did not 
see my mysterious visitant, I perceived that she 
must have been a very opposite person to my own 
poor mother." 

"Yet she said she was your mother, and her 
mother had somewhat to say to you." 

"Yes, which is an inconsistency with fact; for 
my poor mother was an orphan from her youth." 

"And she called you David Gryphyn." 

"Yes, another inconsistency, since my name is 
David Lindsay these two incoherences favor the 
theory that my possible supernatural experience 
was nothing more than a very distinct dream; for 
you know dreams are notoriously incoherent." 


"Yes, I know all that; but still, David Lindsay, 
I think there must be something more than a com 
monplace dream in what you have just told me. 
You have not heard from Dame Lindsay since we 
left ten days ago, have you?" 

"No. I wrote to her from Washington, and again 
from Staunton; but of course you know there has 
been no chance of hearing from her." 

"And she is old and infirm. She may be ill or 
dying. David Lindsay, I hope you will set out and 
return to her as soon as possible." 

"I shall leave here to-morrow. But, my dear lady, 
you should have some better protection here than 
your housekeeper and servants. Did you not tell 
me that Miss de Crespigney would be in Washing 
ton by the first of February?" 

"Yes. Why do you ask?" 

"Because I think she would be the most desir 
able companion that you could have here, and I 
think if she knew your condition she would come 
to you." 

"Oh, yes ! I know she would ! Well thought of, 
David Lindsay ! Aunt Agrippina was to have been 
in Washington this month. The month is nearly 
out now. After the commencement of Lent she will 
not care to stay in the city, as she never goes to 
any place of amusement during that season, so it 
will be no sacrifice on her part to leave Washing 
ton," said Gloria, with animation. 

"Then as I go through the city, I will find out 
where her party is stopping, and call and see her." 

"Yes, David Lindsay, and take a letter from me." 

"If you wish." 

"Yes, I do ; for I must tell her how it all was, and 
she will understand better than most people would, 


the straits to which I have been driven ! She knows 
Marcel and she knows me, and, moreover, she would 
have considered it a mortal sin for me to have 
married my Uncle Marcel. I will go and get out 
my writing materials, and commence the letter at 
once," she exclaimed, rolling up her embroidery 
and rising to leave the room; but looking up, she 
met the eyes of the young man fixed on her, and 
full of the disappointment and sorrow that he could 
not always banish from them. 

"Oh, David Lindsay, can you ever forgive me for 
the great wrong I have done you? 77 she cried, drop 
ping into her chair again and covering her face 
with both hands. 

He did not say that there was nothing to forgive; 
that no wrong had been done him; he could not 
speak so falsely even to soothe her whom he loved 
so fondly and so unselfishly. He had been asked 
to marry her, and then had been rejected at the 
altar. He had been deprived of his liberty, and 
then bitterly disappointed and humiliated. This 
was a deep wrong, and he felt it very acutely. He 
could not soothe her by any smooth denial that it 
was so, yet neither did he reproach her even in his 

When she dropped her hands upon her lap, re 
vealing her tear-stained face and repeated her 
question : 

"Oh, David Lindsay, can you ever, ever forgive 
me, for the great wrong I have done you? 7 his heart 
melted with tenderness towards her, he knelt by her 
side, took her limp hands in his own, looked up in 
her woeful little face his own fine face full of the 
heavenly light of self-renunciation, and said: 

"Whatever there may be to forgive, dearest, I 


forgive with all my heart and soul. I love you too 
deeply and truly to feel a shade of anger towards 
vou. Never, even in my thoughts, have I blamed 

"Oh, you are so good and great-hearted, David 
Lindsay! And I have, in my impulsive selfishness, 
so spoiled your life ! Married you and then refused 
to he your wife, and put it out of your power to 
wed any other woman !" she cried, weeping bitterly. 

"No, Gloria, no, dear, do not reproach yourself 
with that last consequence, for it is not true. I 
love you only, and have loved you only all the days 
of my life. I could not, and cannot change. So 
even if I had not married you I could never have 
married any other woman. Put that cause of self- 
reproach out of your mind, Gloria." 

She was crying so convulsively that she could 
not speak for some time. When she could, her 
hands clasped his, and she sobbed forth : 

"And I love you, David Lindsay ! Oh, I do ! I do ! 
I do ! I do love you, so dearly ! You feel so near 
to me, David Lindsay ; just like my own heart and 
soul; but I don t want to be married! That is, I 
know I am married, but I don t want to be!" 

He made no sort of reply to this tirade. 

"Oh, David Lindsay, I don t want you to go and 
leave me, either. I don t ! What should I do with 
out you now? I should cry myself blind! Oh, 
David Lindsay, how unhappy we are!" 

"There is a wall between us, dear. I know not 
what it is, but I feel it bitterly. It may be the wall 
of caste or prejudice. I would it were down." 

"Ah, Heaven, so do I ! Oh, dear David Lindsay, 
don t go and leave me. Stay with me, and let us be 
just like brother and sister. Say, darling old play- 


mate, won t you stay and be my brother?" she 
pleaded, taking his head between her little hands, 
and laying her face against his forehead. 

Now, if he had been a hypocrite, or even a diplo 
matist, he would have accepted these terms, and 
trusted to time to win the entire heart of his bride. 
But he was too honest, open and straightforward, 
and though his frame shook with emotion, and his 
voice was well-nigh suffocated, he answered firmly : 

"No, Gloria, No, dearest. What you ask is be 
yond human nature; or, at least, beyond mine." 

She cried hard for a few minutes, and then sud 
denly clasped his head again as he knelt beside her, 
dropped her own upon it, and sobbed forth her sub 
mission : 

"Well, then take me! Take me! I will keep my 
vow! I will be your wife, David Lindsay!" 

And now if his great love had not been utterly 
without self-love he would have taken her at her 

But, still shaking with a storm of emotion, still 
speaking in an almost expiring voice, he answered : 

"It is your pity that speaks now, my dearest. 
You feel grieved for me, and in the pity of your 
heart you are willing to give up all your late repug 
nance, and sacrifice yourself to my happiness. Yes, 
even as you once feared you would do in the case 
of your guardian 

"But oh, David Lindsay, it is so different! It 
would have been a mortal sin for me to have been 
MarcePs wife. It seems to me now it would be a 
sin not to be yours !" wept Gloria. 

"You think and speak on an impulse, dearest, 
that you would repent. You would be sure to re 
pent it; and then, Gloria, I should be most wretched 


indeed. No, love, I must not take advantage of this 
pity you feel, for it is nothing else, Gloria. To 
morrow I must leave you. It is my duty to do so. 
I will send your aunt, Miss de Crespigney, to 
you " 

"Oh ! David Lindsay, but my heart will break !" 

"No, no, love! Listen to me. Try yourself, dear 
est. Find out what will make you happy. Now 
you suffer from a generous, tender sympathy with 
me, which is not love, not the love the soul craves, 
and you think I will be unhappy. I shall not be so, 
dearest. I shall be actively engaged in doing my 
duty. 7 

"Oh, but it is not only for you, David Lindsay, it 
is for myself that I am grieving. I shall miss you 
so much!" 

"Because I have been with you for nearly two 
weeks, and you have no one else, except these 
strangers. But, Gloria, in a short time your aunt 
will be here." 

"But she will not be you !" wailed the girl. 

"Listen further. If, when you have got over this 
pang of parting, and have lived some little time 
under the influence of your aunt, you should then, 
after calm reflection, feel that you could be happy 
with me, write and recall me, and I will be at your 
feet again, as I am now." 

He had controlled himself by a great and sus 
tained exertion of his will, and she at last grew 
quieter under his influence. 

"Dear David Lindsay," she said, with a final sob 
and sigh, "go, if you feel that you must go, and put 
me on this probation, if you think I need it ! But I 
shall soon write and beg you to come back to me. 


Be sure of that! And you will come just as soon 
as I send for you, will you not?" 

"Just as soon as you write for me," he answered. 

"And oh, David Lindsay, if I thought you 
wouldn t if I thought that anything could happen 
to prevent you from coming back to me I could 
never bear to see you go. It would break my heart. 
You will come back to me? Tell me again." 

"I will come back as soon as you send for ma" 


[The sequel to this story is published in another 
volume, entitled "David Lindsay," in uniform style 
and price with this book.] 


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The story is divided into two parts, one dealing with Lady Jane Grey, 
and the other with Mary Tudor as Queen, introducing other notable char 
acters of the era. Throughout the story holds the interest of the reader 
in the midst of intrigue and conspiracy, extending considerably over a 
half a century. 

IN DEFIANCE OF THE KING. A Romance of the American Revolution 
By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss. Cloth, i2mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson 
Davis. Price, $1.00. 

Mr. Hotchkiss has etched in burning words a story of Yankee bravery, 
and true love that thrills from beginning to end, with the spirit of the 
Revolution. The heart beats quickly, and we feel ourselves taking a 
part in the exciting scenes described. His whole story is so absorbing 
that you will sit up far into the night to finish it. As a love romance 
it is charming. 

GARTHOWEN. A story of a Welsh Homestead. By Allen Raine. Cloth, 
tamo, with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, Ji.oo. 

"This is a little idyl of humble life and enduring love, laid bare before 
us, very real and pure, which in its telling shows us some strong points of 
Welsh character the pride, the hasty temper, the quick dying out of wrath. 
. . . We call this a well-written story, interesting alike through its 
romance and its glimpses into another life than ours. A delightful and 
clever picture of Welsh village life. The result is excellent." Detroit Free 

M*FANWY. The story of a Welsh Singer. By Allan Raine. Cloth, 
121110. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00. 

"This is a love story, simple, tender and pretty as one would care to 
read. The action throughout is brisk and pleasing; the characters, it is ap 
parent at once, are as true to life as though the author had known them 
all personally. Simple in all its situations, the story is worked up in that 
touching and quaint strain which never grows wearisome, no matter how 
often the lights and shadows of love are introduced. It rings true, and 
doee not tax the imagination." Boston Herald. 


DARNLEY. A Romance of the times of Henry VIII. and Cardinal Wolsey. 
By G. P. R. James. Cloth, i2mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson Davis. 
Price, $1.00. 

As a historical romance "Darnley" is a book that can be taken up 
pleasurably again and again, for there is about it that subtle charm which 
those who are strangers to the works of G. P. R. James have claimed was 
only to be imparted by Dumas. 

If there was nothing more about the work to attract especial attention, 
the account of the meeting of the kings on the historic "fieid of the cloth of 
gold" would entitle the story to the most favorable consideration of every 

There is really but little pure romance in this story, for the author has 
taken care to imagine love passages only between those whom history has 
credited with having entertained the tender passion one for another, and 
he succeeds in making such lovers as all the world must love. 

WINDSOR CASTLE. A Historical Romance of the Reign of Henry VIII 
Catharine of Aragon and Aline Boleyn. By \Vm. Harrison Ainsworth. Cloth. 
i2tno. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank. Price, $1.00. 

"Windsor Castle" is the story of Henry VIII., Catharine, and Anne 
Boleyn. "Bluff King Hal," although a well-loved monarch, was none too 
good a one in many ways. Of all his selfishness and unwarrantable acts, 
none was more discreditable than his divorce from Catharine, and hir mar 
riage to the beautiful Anne Boleyn. The King s love was as brief as it 
was vehement. Jane Seymour, waiting maid on the Queen, attracted him, 
and Anne Boleyn was forced to the block to make room for her successor. 
This romance is one of extreme interest to all readers. 

HORSESHOE ROBINSON. A tale of the Tory Ascendency in South Caro 
lina in 1780. By John P. Kennedy. Cloth, i2mo. with four illustrations by J. 
Watson Davis. Price, $1.00. 

Among the old favorites in the field of what is known as historical fic 
tion, there are none which appeal to a larger number of Americans than 
Horseshoe Robinson, and this because it is the only story which depicts 
with fidelity to the facts the heroic efforts of the colonists in South Caro 
lina to defend their homes against the brutal oppression of the British 
under such Jeaders as Cornwallis and Tarleton. 

The reader is charmed with the story of love which forms the thread 
of the tale, and then impressed with the wealth of detail concerning those 
times. The picture of the manifold sufferings of the people, is never over 
drawn, but painted faithfully and honestly by one who spared neither 
time nor labor in his efforts to present in this charming love story all that 
price in blood and tears which the Carolinians paid as their share in the 
winning of the republic. 

Take it all in all, "Horseshoe Robinson" is a work which should be 
found on every book-shelf, not only because it is a most entertaining 
story, but because of the wealth of valuable information concerning t*e 
colonists which it contains. That It has been brought out once more, well 
illustrated, is something which will give pleasure to thousands who have 
long desired an opportunity to read the story again, and to the many who 
have tried vainly in these latter days to procure a copy that they might 
read it for the first time. 

THE PEARL OP ORR S ISLAND. A story of the Coast of Maine. By 
Harriet Beecher Stowe. Cloth, i2mo. Illustrated. Price, $1.00. 

Written prior to 1862, the "Pearl of Orr s Island" is ever new; a book 
filled with delicate fancies, such as seemingly array themselves anew each 
time one reads them. One sees the "sea like an unbroken mirror all 
around the pine-girt, lonely shores of Orr s Island," and straightway 
comes "the heavy, hollow moan of the surf on the beach, like the wild 
angry howl of some savage animal." 

Who can read of the beginning of that sweet life, named Mara, which 
came into this world under the very shadow of the Death angel s wings, 
without having an intense desire to know how the premature bud blos 
somed? Again and again one lingers over the descriptions of the char 
acter of that baby boy Moses, who came through the tempest, a-mid th 
angry billows, pillowed on his dead mother s breast. 

There is no more faithful portrayal of New England life than that 
tohich Mrs. Stowe gives in "The Pearl of Orr s Island." 


THE SPIRIT OP THE BORDER. A Romance of the Early Settlers in the 
Ohio Valley. By Zane Grey. Cloth. i2mo. with four illustrations by J. Watson 
Davis. Price, $1.00. 

A book rather out of the ordinary is this "Spirit of the Border." Th 
main thread of the story has to do with the work of the Moravian mis 
sionaries in the Ohio Valley. Incidentally the reader is given details of the 
frontier life of those hardy pioneers who broke the wilderness for the plant 
ing of this great nation. Chief among these, as a matter of course, is 
Lewis Wetzel, one of the most peculiar, and at the same time the most 
admirable of all the brave men who spent their lives battling with the 
savage foe, that others might dwell in comparative security. 

Details of the establishment and destruction of the Moravian "Village 
of Peace" are given at some length, and with minute description. The 
efforts to Christianize the Indians are described as they never have been 
before, and the author has depicted the characters of the leaders of the 
several Indian tribes with great care, which of itself will be of interest to 
the student. 

By no means least among the charms of the story are the vivid word- 
pictures of the thrilling adventures, and the intense paintings of the beau 
ties of nature, as seen in the almost unbroken forests. 

It Is the spirit of the frontier which is described, and one can by it, 
perhaps, the better understand why men, and women, too, willingly braved 
every privation and danger that the westward progress of the star of em 
pire might be the more certain and rapid. A love story, simple and tender, 
runs through the book. 

Henry A. Wise, U.S. N. (Harry Gringo). Cloth, i2mo. with four illustra 
tions by J. Watson Davis. Price, $1.00. 

The re-publication of this story will please those lovers of sea yarns 
who delight in so much of the salty flavor of the ocean as can come through 
the medium of a printed page, for never has a story of the sea and those 
"who go down in ships" been written by one more familiar with the scenes 

The one book of this giftad author which is best remembered, and which 
will be read with pleasure for many years to come, is "Captain Brand," 
who, as the author states on his title page, was a "pirate of eminence in 
the West Indies." As a sea story pure and simple, "Captain Brand" has 
never been excelled, and as a story of piratical life, told without the usual 
embellishments of blood and thunder, it has no equal. 

NICK OP THE WOODS. A story of the Early Settlers of Kentucky. By 
Robert Montgomery Bird. Cloth, lamo. with four illustrations by J. Watson 
Davis. Price, $1.00. 

This most popular novel and thrilling story of early frontier life in 
Kentucky was originally published in the year 1837. The novel, long out of 
print, had in its day a phenomenal sale, for its realistic presentation of 
Indian and frontier life in the early days of settlement in the South, nar 
rated in the tale with all the art of a practiced writer. A very charming 
love romance runs through the story. This new and tasteful edition of 
"Nick of the Woods" will be certain to make many new admirers foa 
-his enchanting story from Dr. Bird s clever and versatile pen. 

GUY FAWKES. A Romance of the Gunpowder Treason. By Wm. Harri 
son Ainsworth. Cloth, laino. with four illustrations by George Cruikshank. 
Price, |i.oo. 

The "Gunpowder Plot" was a modest attempt to blow up Parliament, 
the King and his Counsellors. James of Scotland, then King of England, 
was weak-minded and extravagant. He hit upon the efficient scheme of 
extorting money from the people by Imposing taxes on the Catholics. In 
their natural resentment to this extortion, a handful of bold spirits con 
cluded to overthrow the government. Finally the plotters were arrested. 
and the King put to torture Guy Fawkes and the other prisoners with 
royal vigor. A very Intense love story runs through the entire romance- 


TICONDEROGA : A Story of Early Frontier Life in the Mohawk Valley. 
By G. P. R. James. Cloth, izmo. with four page illustrations by J. Watsott 
Davis. Price, $1.00. 

The setting of the story is decidedly more picturesque than any ever 
evolved by Cooper: The frontier of New York State, where dwelt an English 
gentleman, driven from his native home by grief over the loss of his wife, 
with a son and daughter. Thither, brought by the exigencies of war, comes 
an English officer, who is readily recognized as that Lord Howe who met his 
death at Ticonderoga. As a most natural sequence, even amid the hostile 
demonstrations of both French and Indians, Lord Howe and the young girl 
find time to make most deliciously sweet love, and the son of the recluse has 
already lost his heart to the daughter of a great sachem, a dusky maiden 
whose warrior-father has surrounded her with all the comforts of a civilized 

The character of Captain Brooks, who voluntarily decides to sacrifice his 
own life in order to save the son of the Englishman, is not among the least 
of the attractions of this story, which holds the attention of the reader even 
to the last page. The tribal laws and folk lore of the different tribes of 
Indians known as the "Five Nations," with which the story is interspersed, 
shows that the author gave no small amount of study to the work in question, 
and nowhere else is it shown more plainly than by the skilful manner in 
which he has interwven with his plot the "blood" law, which demands a 
life for a life, whether it be that of the murderer or one of his race. 

A more charming story of mingled love and adventure has never been 
written than "Ticonderoga." 

ROB OF THE BOWL : A Story of the Early Days of Maryland. By Johti 
P. Kennedy. Cloth, latno. with four page illustrations by J. Watson Davis. 
Price, $1.00. 

It was while he was a member of Congress from Maryland that the 
noted statesman wrote feis story regarding the early history of his native 
State, and while some critics are inclined to consider "Horse Shoe Robinson" 
as the best of his works, it is certain that "Rob of the Bowl" stands at the 
head of the list as a literary production and an authentic exposition of the 
manners and customs during Lord Baltimore s rule. The greater portion of 
the action takes place in St. Mary s the original capital of the State. 

As a series of pictures of early colonial life in Maryland, "Rob of the 
Bowl" has no equal, and the book, having been written by one who had 
exceptional facilities for gathering material concerning the individual mem 
bers of the settlements in and about St. Mary s, is a most valuable addition 
to the history of the State. 

The story is full of splendid action, with a charming love story, and a 
plot that never loosens the grip of its interest to its last page. 

BY BERWEN BANKS. By Allen Raine. 

It is a tender and beautiful romance of the idyllic. A charming pictnne 
of life in a Welsh seaside village. It is something of a prose-poem, true, 
tender and graceful. 

IN DEFIANCE OF THE KING. A romance of the American Revolution. 
By Chauncey C, Hotchkiss. Cloth, lamo. with four illustrations by J. Watson 
Davis. Price, |i.oo. 

The story opens in the month of April, 1775, with the provincial troops 
hurrying to the defense of Lexington and Concord. Mr. Hotchkiss has etched 
in burnlmg words a story of Yankee bravery and true love that thrills from 
beginning to end with the spirit of the Revolution. The heart beats quickly, 
and we feel ourselves taking a part in the exciting scenes described. Yen 
lay the book aside with the feeling that you have seen a gloriously true 
picture of the Revolution. His whole story is so absorbing that you will at*. 
P far into the night to finish it. As a love romance it is charming. 


BURT S HOME LIBRARY is a series which 
Includes the standard works of the world s best literature, 
bound in uniform cloth binding, gilt tops, embracing 
chiefly selections from writers of the most notable 
English, American and Foreign Fiction, together with 
many important works in the domains 
of History, Biography, Philosophy, 
Travel, Poetry and the Essays* 

A glance at the following annexed 
list of titles and authors will endorse 
the claim that the publishers make 
for it that it is the most compre 
hensive, choice, interesting, and by 
far the most carefully selected series 
of standard authors for world-wide 
reading that has been produced by 
any publishing house in any country, and that at prices 
$o cheap, and In a style so substantial and pleasing, as to 
win for it millions of readers and the approval and 
commendation, not only of the book trade throughout 
the American continent, but of hundreds of thousands of 
librarians, clergymen, educators and men of letters 
interested In the dissemination of instructive, entertaining 
and thoroughly wholesome reading matter for the masses. 


HURT S HOME LIBRARY. Cloth. Gilt Tops. Price, $1.00 

Abfce Constantin. BY LUDOVIC 


Addison s Essays. EDITED BY JOHN 

Aeneid of Virgil. TRANSLATED BY 

Aesop s Fables. 
AlDxander, the Great. Life of. BY 

Alfred, the Great, Life of. BY THOMAS 


Alice in Wonderland, and Through the 

Looking-Glass. BY LEWIS CARROLL 
Alice Lorraine. BY R. D. BLACKMORE 
All Sorts and Conditions of Men. BY 


Amiel s Journal. TRANSLATED BY 

Andersen s Fairy Tales. 
Aline of Geirstein. BY SIR WALTER 


Arabian Nights Entertainments. 
Arnold, Benedict, Life of. BY GEORGE 

Arnold s Poems. BY MATTHEW 


Around the World in the Yacht Sun 
beam.. BY MRS. BRASSKY. 
Aruadel Motto. BY MARY CBCIL 

At the Back of *he North Wind. BY 

Attic Philosopher. BY EMILB SOU- 
Autd Licht Idylls. Br JAMES M. 


Aunt Diana. BY ROSA N. CAREY. 
Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin. 
Autocrat of the Breakfast Table. BY 

Averil. BY ROSA N. CAREY. 
Bacon s Essays. BY FRANCIS B/.^ON. 
Barbara Heathcote i Trial. BY KJSA 


Barnaby Rudge. BY CHARLES DICK 
Barrack Room Ballads. BY RUDYARD 


Black Beauty, BY ANNA SEWALL. 
Slack Dwarf. BY SIR WALTER 


Blithedale Romance. BY NATHANIEL 


Bondman. BY HALL CAINE. 
Book of Golden Deeds. BY CHAR- 


Boone, Daniel, Life of. BY CECIL B. 

Bride of Lammermoor. BY SIR 


Bride of th Nile. BY GEORGE ERERS. 
Browning s Poems. BY ELIZABETH 

Browning s Poems. (SELECTIONS.) 

Bryant s Poems. (EARLY.) BY WILL 
Burgomaster s Wife. BY GEORGB 


Barn s Poems. BY ROBERT BURNS. 
By Order of the King. BY VICTOR 


Byron s Poems. BY LORD BYRON. 
Caesar, Julius, Life of. BY JAMES, 

Carson, Kit, Life of. BY CHARLES 



Cast Up by the bea. BY SIR SAMUEL 

Charkmagce (Charles the Great), Life 

Charles Auchester. BY E. BERGER. 
Charles O Mailey. BY CHARLES 


Chesterfield s Letters. BY LORD CHES 
Chevalier rle Maison Rouge. BY 

Chicot the Jester. BY ALEXANDRB 

Children of the Abbey. BY RE GIN A 

M/-- - . ROCHE. 
Child:, History of England. BY 

Christrras Stories. BY CHARLES 

Cloister and the Hearth. BY CHARLES 


Coleridge s Poems. BY SAMUEL TAY 
Columbus, Christopher, Life of. BY 

Companions of Jehu. BY ALEXANDRB 

Complete Angler. BY WALTON ANr- 

Conduct of Life. BY RALPH W"LD 

Confessions of an Opium Eater. B 

Conquest of Granada. BY WASHING 



Conspiracy of Pontiac. BY FRANCIS 

Conspirators. BY ALEXANDRK DU 

Consuelo. BY GEORGE SAND. 

Cook s Voyages. BY CAPTAIN JAMES 


Countess de Charney. BY ALEXANDRE 

Countess Gisela. Bv . MARLITT. 

TO* 202 Main Library 








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